Page 9 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
He pushes off from the doorframe and walks toward me, and I have to force myself not to take a step back. Not because I’m afraid of him, but because being this close to him makes me want to forget all about the rules we set last night.
“Did something happen? Was it something I said?” he asks, but there’s a teasing note in his voice that tells me he’s not actually worried.
“You didn’t say anything wrong. This is just... One night, remember?”
“Right. One night.” But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
When he stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the water droplets still clinging to his chest, I know I’m in trouble. Because instead of letting me leave with my dignity intact, he reaches up and cups my face in his hands.
“Harper,” he says quietly, observing my face. When his eyes land on my lips, my stomach flutters.
“This was supposed to be one night,” I whisper, even as I lean into his touch.
“I know.” And then he’s kissing me, soft and sweet and nothing like the heated kisses from last night. This kiss is tender in a way that makes my chest tight.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Let me drive you home,” he says.
I want to say no. I want to call an Uber and maintain whatever shred of casual cool I have left. But the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something precious instead of just a hookup, makes me nod before I can stop myself.
“Okay.”
The drive back to campus is quiet, filled with the kind of tension that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with the fact that neither of us seems ready for this to be over. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, doesn’t ask for my number or suggest we do this again. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console close enough to mine that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
When he pulls up in front of my dorm, I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to face him. He’s already looking at me, those blue-green eyes unreadable in the morning light.
“Thank you,” I say. “For… everything.”
His smile is small but genuine. “Thank you for saying yes.”
I get out of the truck before I can do something stupid like kiss him goodbye, but I can’t resist looking back through the passenger window. He’s still watching me, and for a moment, I almost tap on the glass and ask if he wants to get breakfast.
Instead, I force myself to smile and wave, then turn and walk toward my building without looking back. I can hear his truck idle for another moment before he finally drives away, and I tell myself the hollow feeling in my chest is just because I didn’t eat dinner last night.
It has nothing to do with the fact that one night with Liam Murphy was not enough.
3
Locker Room Echo
Cole
Thepracticefacilitystillholds that crisp bite of cold air that follows us off the ice, mixing with the familiar scent of hockey tape and whatever industrial cleaner they use on these floors. I’m working on unlacing my skates when Liam strolls into the locker room twenty minutes after the rest of us, hair still damp.
I’ve known Liam Murphy since we were eighteen-year-old freshmen trying not to embarrass ourselves at our first college practice. Four years of being teammates, roommates that first year, drinking buddies, wingmen. I can read his moods like a playbook. And right now? He’s wearing that particular brand of male satisfaction that screamsmission accomplished.
But there’s something different about this version of his post-hookup swagger. Less conquest, more... contentment? Which is weird, because Liam doesn’t really do contentment. He does temporary satisfaction and quick exits.
He drops onto the bench beside me casually like he hasn’t just walked in here looking like the cat who got the cream and then went back for seconds.
“What?” he says without even looking at me, focused on retying his shoes.
“You’re practically humming, man.” I finish with my skates and lean back against my locker. “Spill.”
Liam laughs, the sound a little too light. “Can’t a guy be in a good mood after a win? Too bad you missed the party. It was epic.”
Right. The party I couldn’t go to because I spent the entire weekend intimately acquainted with my toilet bowl, thanks to some questionable sushi. Fuck food poisoning. Those Chinese buffet restaurants really know how to do it.
