Page 24 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“So we’re back to Stone now?” I leaned against the counter, deliberately invading her space just a little. “Not ‘auditory chocolate’?”
“I have a meeting at seven,” she said, ignoring my question. “Dr. Barnes wants to discuss my research parameters after our call was...interrupted.”
“Sorry about that,” I said, not feeling sorry at all.
Kate finally looked at me properly, those green eyes assessing me. “No, you’re not.”
I shrugged. “Not really.”
Unexpectedly, she laughed.
Christ.
My body responded immediately to her laugh, and given my lack of a shirt and the thin material of my sweatpants, there was no hiding it.
Kate’s eyes drifted downward, then quickly back up. “Oh,” she breathed.
“Yeah. Oh.” I didn’t move away or try to hide my reaction. “Problem, Dr. Ellis?”
She bit her lower lip, and it took every ounce of self-control not to close the distance between us.
“Not a problem,” she said finally.
Kate’s phone alarm blared, breaking the moment. She jumped back as if burned.
“I have to get ready,” she said quickly, pouringher coffee into a travel mug and sloshing some over the side in her haste. “I should...yeah.”
She practically ran from the kitchen, leaving me half-hard and thoroughly confused about what the hell we were doing.
By the time I returned from physical therapy that afternoon, I’d come to a decision. Kate and I needed to establish some clear boundaries if we were going to survive living together. The texting had been one thing—anonymous, safe, with no real-world consequences.
But now? We need to clear the air.
I headed straight for the arena after therapy, earlier than necessary for the team meeting. The rink had always been my peace space—the one place where everything made sense.
I was in the locker room reviewing game footage on my tablet when Coach Martinez found me.
“Callahan,” he grunted, dropping onto the bench beside me. “Early as usual.”
I nodded in acknowledgment, pausing the video.
“How’s the knee?”
“Getting there,” I said, the standard response I gave everyone.
“Team needs you back, Stone. Management’s breathing down my neck about a timeline.”
I clenched my jaw. “Physical therapist says four weeks minimum.”
“We don’t have four weeks. Playoffs are looking shaky with Johnson out too.”
“I’m aware.” I kept my voice neutral, but irritation flared hotbeneath my skin. “Rushing back won’t help if I blow out the knee completely.”
Coach sighed, rubbing his face. “I know. Just...keep me updated. Real updates, not the bullshit you feed the media.”
“Yes, sir.”
After he left, I sat in the empty locker room, frustration building. Four months of my life lost to this injury already. My career, my identity, hanging in the balance of millimeters of healing tissue.
