Page 167 of Playing the Pucking Game
Before I know it, an hour has passed and I’m still lying on the couch, gossiping with my little sister.
“I should let you go,” I say, realizing the time. “It’s a school night.”
“It’s barely ten,” she points out. “I’ve still got homework to do.”
“Why didn’t you say?” I ask, feeling guilty that I’ve stopped her from working.
“Because it’s nice to hear your voice.”
Christ.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch enough.”
“It’s okay. I’m just as much to blame. I have your number, too. Life just gets busy, doesn’t it?”
I glance toward my guest bedroom, wondering what Parker is doing. Did she go and have a long soak in the bath, or did she curl up in bed? If I’d stood at her door, would I have heard that familiar buzz of her vibrator and the soft moans she lets out as she comes?
“Yeah,” I muse, dragging my thoughts from the gutter. “It does. You need to come to a game.”
“I do. It’s been forever.”
“Let me know what game you can make and how many tickets you need.”
“Aw, you’re the best.”
“I do try. Wanna lift the cup this year.”
“It’s going to happen. You’re all killing it. Especially your new rookie. He’s hot.”
“Nova,” I warn. “Stay the fuck away from my teammates.”
The second the words pass my lips, I understand the irony.
Here I am warning my little sister away from my teammates, while I’ve got my best friend’s little sister living rent-free in both my guest room and my dirty fantasies.
43
PARKER
The next week passes in a blur of traveling, games, and exhaustion. But despite that, every day I love my job and the direction my career is going even more. This job might have turned my world upside down, but as I expected, it’s in the best way possible.
The guys are incredible. They’re midway through the season, and their bodies are beginning to show the signs of exertion. With every game, there is more athletic tape used to keep them together, and the postgame sessions on my table get longer, as do the ice baths.
It’s late afternoon when my final athlete of the day rolls off my table, dresses, and slips out of the room.
With my own exhaustion and need for a quiet, early night setting in, I take my iPad to our connecting office and fall into my chair to get some notes written up.
The sound of Mitchell and the athlete he’s working with filters through the air, but I easily block them out and focus on my own job.
It’s not until his shadow darkens the doorway to the office a while later that I finally look up from what I’m doing.
“I’m late,” he tells me as he grabs his bag and throws it over his shoulder, ready to leave.
Suspicion rolls through me, and I push to my feet and look out into the training room.
The table he abandoned is still covered in his athlete’s sweat, and there is tape littering the floor, equipment everywhere.
“You can clean up for me, can’t you?” he sneers as he pushes past me.
