Page 21 of Slapshot
The tension in his body a moment later told me when he came fully awake.
The hand on my breast squeezed once before taking a lazy stroke down my body, up over my hip and finally settled in my hair, moving it away from his face.
“Blair?” he asked quietly.
“Uh… hi?”
He pulled his hips, and that erection I was quietly curious about, away from me with such a violent jerk he threw himself off the bed. The crash of his landing was accompanied by the bedside lamp following him down, as well as half the bedding. With a less-than-graceful push, he found his feet and flapped around, trying to untangle the sheets from his body. While he fought, I retrieved my glasses from the nightstand. Without them, I couldn’t see a whole lot more than color and blurred shapes.
“What are you doing in my room?” he asked, finally free of his restraints and sporting a deep crease between his brows.
“Actually, you’re in my room,” I said, pointing to my laptop as though it were proof of residence.
He looked around the small space that was mine for the night we’d spent in Washington. It wasn’t as fancy as where the players slept, and after the night we’d had, I would have appreciated something bigger than a double bed, but it was enough for me to get my work done. Cian’s expression told me he may not have agreed.
“What am I doing in your room?” he asked at last.
“Do you remember anything from last night?”
He kicked the sheets away and paced in the small space, hands on hips and head bowed.
“You left again.”
“You said that last night.”
He nodded, his movements becoming more sure. “You do that a lot. Come out with us for a drink, but as soon as my back is turned, you ghost. Why do you keep leaving?”
“I know when I’m not wanted.”
“You…? Are you serious right now?” He may have been the color of flour and smelled like stale booze, but Cian in a mood still cut an intimidating figure.
He stalked forward, until he stood over me on the bed.
“What part of the night made you feel unwanted? Was it when I explicitly invited you? When I held your hand and sat you beside me? Maybe when I made sure we both had drinks because I’d had a really shitty night and wanted you close. Tell me, Blair. When were you not wanted?”
I lifted my chin and met his glare, kind of wishing I could stand up and meet him eye to eye, but he didn’t give me the space for that.
“When better options came along.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his hand down his face and winced like his head hurt.
“I’m too hungover for this,” he muttered. “What ‘better options’ came along?” He crooked two fingers as he spoke, turning the sentence into a quote.
Heat flooded my face. Did he want me to spell it out for him?
“Those puck bunnies are always so accommodating for you. It looked like you’d used them well before you came looking for the last resort. Should I thank you for giving me a look in?”
“What…?”
“You know. The leftover. The bottom of the barrel. Put a bag on her head and she’ll do in a pinch.” I was on a roll. Every passing comment I’d heard over the years in locker rooms and school halls bubbling out and spewing over this man that I’d made the embodiment of all my insecurities.
Because I liked him.
As I spiraled into a chasm of self-loathing and the hateful words of others I’d faithfully absorbed and stored in my emotional walls over the years, I comforted myself with the fact that none of it was new. And nothing could make me feel worse than I already did.
“You think I came here last night for sex?”
I was wrong.
