Page 47 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
She turned to face me. “What happened?”
“I asked him about who he’d be without hockey. Because of his injury.” I winced at the memory of his expression shutting down. “He practically froze me out after that.”
Angel frowned. “Okay… but what exactly did he say?”
“Nothing, really. That’s the problem. One second, we were laughing, and the next—he just… pulled away. Said it was late. That he needed sleep before PT. And I know it sounds small, but the shift wasso obvious.”
I took a breath, trying to steady the knot forming in my chest.
“It was like I hit a nerve he didn’t even want to admit existed. And then—poof. Wall up. Distance mode activated.”
Angel was quiet, watching me closely.
“I ended up sleeping in the guest room,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Just...in case. He didn’t say anything about it, but the way he went cold—I didn’t want to push him.”
I stared into my plastic wine cup, the cheap Chardonnay suddenly sour on my tongue.
“I don’t even know if I said something awful, or if I just hit something too raw. He didn’t get angry—he just shut down. Like a switch flipped and I was suddenly a stranger again.”
I swallowed hard, staring at the swirl of wine in my cup.
“I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about it—about him. Everything he’s been through, everything he’s still trying to hold onto. Hockey isn’t just his job, it’s his identity. And I asked him who he’d be without it like it was some casual conversation starter.”
My throat tightened.
“What if I made him feel small? Like he’s already losing everything that matters and now I’m the idiot who reminded him just how much he could still lose?”
“Ouch.” Angel’s expression softened. “You basically poked his biggest fear.”
“I know. I just...I wanted him to know he’s more than just his career. That I see him as more than just a hockey player.” I took a large gulp of my wine. “But it came out all wrong.”
“Have you apologized?”
“Not yet. He was still asleep when I left this morning.” I sighed. “What if I ruined whatever this is between us?”
“Kate Ellis, I have never seen you this worked up over a guy,” Angel said, studying me with newfound interest. “You really like him, don’t you?”
“It’s more than like,” I admitted quietly, the truth of it hitting me with unexpected force. “And that’s terrifying.”
Angel squeezed my arm. “That’s not terrifying—that’s exciting. But right now, you need to network for twenty minutes, and then you have my full permission to rush home to your hockey player.”
I managed a weak smile. “Fine. Twenty minutes of schmoozing, then I’m out.”
Those twenty minutes stretched into an excruciating two hours of academic posturing and forced laughter. By the time I finally extracted myself, claiming an early lab morning, my cheeks hurt from fake smiling and my head pounded from the noise.
By the time my rideshare pulled up to the building, I’d rehearsed at least six versions of how to talk to Austin. Should I apologize immediately? Act casual? Seduce him into forgetting I’d ever asked the question? None of my options seemed right.
When I unlocked the door to the apartment, I was greeted by silence, except for the low murmur of the television. I kicked off my heels by the door (in the designated shoe area Austin had created for me after finding my footwear scattered across his pristine entryway once too often) and padded quietly into the living room.
The sight that greeted me made my heart do a little flip.
Austin was asleep on the couch, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting on his stomach. Hockey game footage played silently on the TV, casting blue shadows across his face. In sleep, the perpetual crease between his eyebrows had smoothed out, making him look younger, less burdened.
I set my bag down gently and moved closer, unable to resist studying him when he wasn’t aware of my gaze. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, and his lips—those incredible lips that had mapped every inch of my body—were slightly parted in sleep. A hint of stubble darkened his jaw, and I had to stop myself from running my fingers along it, remembering how the slight roughness felt against my inner thighs.
God, he was beautiful. Not just physically—though the man was definitely sculpted by some hockey deity with a particular talent for broad shoulders and perfect asses—but in all those little moments when his guard dropped. When he laughed reluctantly at one of my science jokes. When he concentrated on stretching his injured knee, determination etched in every line of his body. When he looked at me in quiet moments after we’d made love, his ice-blue eyes warmed to the color of a summer sky.
With startling clarity, I realized I was falling for him. Not just the incredible sex, not just the thrill of solving the mystery of Austin Callahan, but him—all of him. The disciplined athlete and the vulnerable man. The frustrating roommate and the passionate lover. The person who alphabetized his spices but still made room for my chaos.
