Page 18 of Playing the Pucking Game
I feel marginally better once I’m done, but sadly, the light pounding at my temples doesn’t lessen. Nor does the ache in my chest.
Wiping my mouth with the hand towel, I stand to full height and stare at myself in the mirror.
You are a strong, independent woman, Parker Donnelly.
You are about to be the LA Vipers’ first female athletic trainer.
This is not going to break you.
If anything, it’s an opportunity.
New job. New you.
Buy new clothes. Test out new makeup.
You got this.
I force a smile on my lips, my eyes tracking down my body that I work so hard to maintain, but the second my eyes land on a big number seven, everything I just told myself crumbles to the ground.
I don’t need to twist around to see my back to know what’s there.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss before racing from the bathroom and then seconds later, the bedroom.
“Lincoln Storm, why the fuck am I wearing your name and number?” I shout as I march toward the living area he briefly showed me last night.
It was all a blur, so when I step into the room, I immediately come to a stop. And not because of the half-naked man sitting at his kitchen island, sipping on coffee.
Motherfucker, indeed.
His eyes lock on mine, and a smile pulls at his lips. “Good morning, Little P. How did you sleep?”
Irritation shoots through me. How can he be so…so…blasé about this?
“Oh, wonderful. It was almost as if my entire apartment building didn’t go up in flames last night and I haven’t lost every single thing I own,” I snap, my hands on my hips for good measure.
His smile falters, but only for the briefest of moments before it’s back to full wattage again.
Asshole.
“So like a baby, then?”
“I need coffee if I have to deal with this,” I mutter, stalking toward the kitchen, and sadly, closer to him.
Why is he only wearing a pair of athletic shorts, and why does his hair have to be wet, dripping onto his shoulders and sending little rivers running down his chest and abs?
Stop fucking looking, Parker.
He doesn’t say a word as I come to a stop in front of his coffee machine.
My independence is soon squashed when I realize I have no idea where the pods or mugs are.
A deep chuckle rumbles around me.
“What?” I snap, whirling around to glare at him.
“You look hot with my name on you, Donnelly.”
“Bite me, Storm.”
