Page 15 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
I shrug uncomfortably. "Don't talk about it much. The fact that my mom was an addict who spent half of my life in prison isn't really something that rolls off the tongue."
"Damn, baby," he says softly. "I'm sorry."
"Me too," I whisper, desperately trying not to think about the fact that he just called me baby.
"Well, you're damn good at your job."
The compliment, following so closely on the heels of that endearment rolling from his lips, catches me off guard. "Thanks."
He smirks. "You're also the only one on staff who doesn't look at me like I'm a science experiment."
He's not entirely wrong. He's thirty-eight. Most guys have retired from the league by his age. But Trent? Well, he just won't give up. He wasn't built that way.
"You're not a science experiment. You're just…complicated," I offer. It's not that, though. Not really. Trent's simple enough if you understand him. Hockey is his home, his safe place. It's the one place in the world where he knows exactly how and where he fits, where he's in control. He doesn't want to give that up. And as someone who has never really had a safe place or much control, I get it even if no one else does.
He grins, stretching again. "I'll take that as a compliment."
We lapse into a comfortable silence, broken only by the ticking of a fancy wall clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator. It's nice in an odd kind of way. I don't get a lot of quiet time with the guys. Usually, they're either loud and annoying as hell, or they're so wrapped up in their own drama that I feel like an NPC in their world.
But Trent is different. He's cocky, sure. Sometimes, he's even grumpy as hell, but he's also attentive.He listens. And, apparently, he likes my fudge enough to nearly die for it.
After a while, I notice his breathing has evened out. He's not asleep, but he's close. His head tilts back, his lips parting. I could get up and sneak out, but something holds me in place.
Maybe it's the exhaustion, or the fact that I've been running on pure cortisol since well before sunrise, but I let myself relax. Just for a minute.
And then I hear the faintest little snore.
I bite back a laugh, peeking over at him.
"You're snoring," I tease.
His eyes pop open, his expression lazy and amused. "Am not."
"Are too."
He hits me with another of those panty-melting grins. "You're hearing things, Sunshine."
I roll my eyes. "Go back to sleep, Kirk."
But he's not letting me off that easily. He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, and looks at me with a seriousness that's almost alarming.
"Hey," he says, his voice intense in a way it wasn't just a moment before. "Thank you for taking care of me today. Even if you did try to kill me."
I don't know what to say, so I settle for, "Anytime."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods, satisfied, and settles back onto the couch. Within two minutes, he's actually snoring.
I sit there, staring at the city lights, wondering how on earth I'm supposed to ever look him in the eye again. I almost killed him. He almost died. But here we are, just chilling on his couch, and somehow, it feels like maybe the worst day ever turned out to be…kind of amazing, actually.
I'm not about to admit that to anyone, though.
Especially not to Trent Kirk.
Sleep is a nonstarterwhen my body is still vibrating, but the longer he snores, the more anxious I get. I should leave. I should get out now, while he's drooling into the throw pillow and can't see me panic-walk to the elevator.
But I don't.
Instead, I scroll my phone, watching reels and triple-checking the group chat for news of a freakout or, God forbid, another allergic reaction to my culinary offerings. But there's nothing but the usual memes and a photo of someone's bare ass getting taped up after practice.
