Page 42 of Playoff
When I opened the bedroom door there was no sign of my guest. I closed it behind me, activating the lock just to be sure.
“Jess?”
“Yes?” Her voice came from the en suite.
“I’ve got good news and bad news.”
She stepped out, arms crossed. “The good news?”
“Fitch didn’t see you. Has no idea who you are—thinks I have a puck bunny in here.”
Her lips narrowed. “The bad news?”
“He’s here for the night.”
Her arms dropped. “What?”
“He slipped on the ice in front of the building. Now he’s icing his ankle and staying here to watch the skills competition.”
She blinked at me. “You’re kidding me.”
I shook my head. “Looks like we’re stuck here till he goes to bed, unless you want to tell him we’re just talking.”
She leaned her head on the doorframe, staring at the ceiling. “Like he’s going to believe that when I hid in your bedroom. I panicked.”
Honestly, I’d probably have shooed her off myself if she hadn’t been so quick. “I can’t send him out to the store to get something, not when he’s resting his foot.”
“Shit.” She huffed a breath and looked around what was her prison for the next few hours. Too bad we hadn’t been planning on a booty call.
Down, libido.
There wasn’t a lot in the room—a California King took up most of the space. I’d ordered a stand to hang my suit on if needed, but no chairs. Just a couple of dressers and the big bed, neutral off-white walls. Thanks to the last road trip, I’d hardly spent any time in the room.
“Come on. We might as well get comfortable.” I stood the pillows up against the headboard and settled against them on the side where I normally slept.
She stared for a minute. “This is not a hookup.”
“No, it’s not. But we’re here for a few hours, and it’s either the bed or the floor. I’m not sitting on the floor.”
She looked down at the hardwood. There was an area rug, left by the previous owners, but it wasn’t plush. She raised her brows. “If you were a gentleman…”
We weren’t in some Gothic novel. Did she really expect me to give her the whole bed? “I never said I was. I’m an athlete, and I can’t mess up?—”
She snorted and grinned. She’d been playing me.
“Come and sit on the bed, Trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“That’s what your name is in my phone.”
That seemed to please her. “Nobody’s called me that.”
“What do you call me?”
“K.”
I stared at her. “K?” What the hell did K stand for?
