Page 6 of Top Shelf
“Of course.” My heart had finally stopped pounding, and I could breathe again. “I think I’m going out.” Shit. Saying it out loud made it very, very real.
His brows flew up. “In the rain? You hate the rain.” It was sweet that he knew that.
“He’s picking me up.”
“He?” Colton leaned closer, grinning.
“Will you stop that,” I begged. I was already bursting to ask someone for help with my virginity problem, and when Colton was nice to me, it was even more difficult to keep my mouth shut. He probably would have been a safe person to talk to too.Except…he also had a fat mouth that would get drunk and tell everyone, so…
Yeah, no. That was a no go.
Holding up his hands in surrender, he leaned back out of my space, and I was able to breathe easier. It was weird that the goddamn king of soccer—the guy everyone knew on campus with a not-so-nice reputation that followed him everywhere—was sitting on my bed, holding my half-done quail and trying to calm me down.
I didn’t mind it though. I liked Colton. He was nothing like my brothers, and maybe he would have been the dickhead who pushed me into a trash can in high school, but now he was the dickhead who would beat the absolute fuck out of anyone who looked at me sideways.
I cleared my throat. “It’s Quinn.”
“Am I supposed to know that name?”
Picking up my phone, I opened up the group chat and scrolled to the last time Quinn had said anything in the thread.
Colton cleared his throat. “That’s the dude with the cane, right? Ex-NHL guy.”
I nodded. It seemed unfair to reduce him down to ex-NHL guy with a cane, but it was accurate, considering I didn’t think Colton had said two words to him during the shoot.
He stroked his chin, then shrugged. “You could do worse. But here.” He stood up and dug into his pocket for a second, producing a three-pack of condoms. “Professional players might look well put together, but never trust where their dicks have been.”
I almost choked on my own tongue. He didn’t know about my whole virgin thing either. That was not something I was ever going to advertise in a damn frat house. “Um.”
He grinned and grabbed my wrist, slapping the condoms into my hand. “Remember to have fun, pick a safe word, and callme if anything goes sideways. I’m not scared of jail, Reddy. My dad has an amazing lawyer.”
Before I could say anything, he was gone, and I was left sitting on my bed with the condoms, the half quail, and no idea what to do with myself.
Bzzt! Bzzt!
I stared down, half-able to conjure a functional thought. It was him.
Quinn: I’m here. This place is a shithole. I hope they don’t charge you too much for it.
Scrambling to my feet, I rushed to the window, crushing the blinds as I stared out across the front lawn. He was there, standing just outside of the driver’s door, his chest pressed against the car. He looked like a fucking wet dream with the sun glinting off his silver strands and his aviators covering what I knew were soft, gorgeous brown eyes. It had stopped raining for the moment, but I could see a few drops glinting off his bomber jacket.
Oh, I wassoscrewed. He was here to give me advice, and I was going to do nothing but half listen and lust. But I couldn’t back out now. He’d come all this way.
The least I could do was hear him out and maybe get some advice on how to handle my shit before I stepped foot into the world an injury had forced him to leave behind.
Chapter Two
Quinn
I didn’t knowwhat the fuck I was thinking when I told that cute, nervous guy from the photoshoot that we could meet up and chat. And I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing sitting in front of his goddamn frat house on a Thursday afternoon waiting for him to get into my car.
But there I was, making yet another bad decision.
Then again, that was kind of the theme of my life. It started with joining a hockey team at seven because my parents wanted me out of their hair, dropping out of high school when I got drafted to the NHL, agreeing to a secret, two-month marriage ending in a hateful divorce with him threatening to write a tell-all book before I sued him into silence, and ending with breaking routine and choosing a new coffee shop to get my morning caffeine from, which cost me, well, everything.
Though my therapist had done her best to restructure the way I thought about the accident, because choosing a different shop to get coffee at in the morning was not worthy of some cosmic punishment that left me retired from the NHL and unable to bend my knee ever again.
But she also didn’t fully understand what superstitious bastards we all were. When I woke up from my drug-inducedhaze after my fourth surgery, a couple of my teammates were in the recovery room. No one said it aloud, but we all looked at each other and knew.
