Page 66 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“I’m guessing that wasn’t a ‘congratulations on your recovery’ call,” Kate said, crossing the room to stand in front of me.
“My father wants to meet you.” I tossed my phone onto the bed. “Tonight. He’s concerned you might be a ‘distraction’ during my comeback.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “Wow. He sounds...intense.”
“That’s one word for it,” I muttered, raking a hand throughmy hair. “We don’t have to go. I can call him back and cancel.”
“Is that what you want?” she asked, studying me with that careful scientist’s gaze that always made me feel like she could see more than I wanted her to.
I sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What I want is for him to mind his own fucking business. But that’s never been his style.”
Kate sat beside me, her shoulder pressing against mine in silent support. “Tell me about him.”
“Former hockey coach turned sports commentator. He’s built his entire identity around the game, around winning.” I hesitated, old pains resurfacing. “Nothing was ever good enough. A hat trick wasn’t worth celebrating if I’d missed a defensive assignment. Individual awards meant nothing without team championships.”
“That sounds exhausting,” she said softly.
“It was. Still is.” I looked down at our hands, where Kate had interlaced her fingers with mine. “He’s going to judge you based on whether he thinks you fit into his vision of what a professional athlete’s partner should be.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“Supportive, undemanding, willing to arrange her life around my career.” I grimaced. “Basically the opposite of the brilliant, independent scientist who alphabetizes her bacteria cultures but can’t remember to put the cap back on the toothpaste.”
Kate smiled at that, squeezing my hand. “You make me sound like a nightmare.”
“You’re my favorite nightmare,” I replied, bringing her handto my lips. “Which is why I don’t want to subject you to Hurricane Harold.”
“Hurricane Harold,” she repeated with a laugh. “I’m a data-oriented person, Austin. Logically, I should collect firsthand observations rather than relying on secondhand accounts, no matter how reliable the source.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “Are you seriously approaching meeting my father like a science experiment?”
“Of course,” she said brightly. “It’s the most efficient approach. We form a hypothesis—‘Harold Callahan will be judgmental and critical’—then we collect data through direct observation, and analyze the results.”
“You’re insane,” I said, but found myself smiling despite my apprehension.
“I’m methodical,” she corrected, standing and pulling me to my feet. “And I won’t deny I’m curious to see the man who created the most disciplined human I’ve ever met.”
“Glutton for punishment,” I muttered, pulling her against my chest. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I never do,” she said cheerfully. “That’s what makes life interesting. Besides, I’ve presented my research to rooms full of skeptical scientists looking for any flaw to destroy my work. How bad could one hockey dad be?”
I cupped her face in my hands, overcome with affection for this fearless woman. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Statistically improbable statement.” She stretched up to kiss me softly. “The evidence suggests we’re actually well-matched despite our outward differences.”
“Is that your scientific assessment, Dr. Ellis?”
“Preliminary findings only,” she murmured against my lips. “I’ll need to conduct extensive additional research.”
“How extensive?” I asked, my hands sliding to her waist.
She pushed me gently onto the bed, climbing over me with a predatory smile that sent heat racing through my body. “Very, very extensive,” she promised, her fingers finding the drawstring of my sweatpants. “With multiple trials to ensure reproducibility.”
“I fully support this research,” I managed to say before her mouth found mine, making me forget all about my father and the dinner ahead of us.
For a brief, perfect moment, there was only Kate—her weight on top of me, her hands exploring with scientific precision, her mouth hot and demanding against mine. I lost myself in her, in the way she made everything else fade into background noise. The trade rumors, my father’s expectations, the pressure of my comeback—all of it receded when Kate was in my arms.
“You’re thinking too much,” she whispered, pulling back to study my face with those perceptive green eyes.
