Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Jason
There’s a woman in the bed beside me.
What the fuck did I do?
My head pounds and my mouth is drier than the Sahara, but all I can think about is the soft, warm body spooning me from behind. I never get to be the little spoon; I’m always the big spoon, whether I like it or not.
There’s an arm slung around my waist, the fingernails painted a soft pink color. Who do I know that wears pink nail polish?
My head throbs and my bladder protests, so I ease out of the bed and lumber to the bathroom to take care of business.
Washing my hands, I splash some cold water on my face, taking in the cosmetics bag on the bathroom counter and the bra hanging on the hook behind the door.
It’s pink and lacy. I’m definitely not in my room.
There’s no sign of a condom wrapper in the trash. Fuck. I hope we were safe. Although I’m still wearing my jeans, there’s no dried cum in my pubes, and given the extent of my hangover, I highly doubt I cleaned myself up properly afterward, so…
Maybe we didn’t have sex?
Lurching back to the main room, I spot the pills on the bedside table and swallow them, chasing them down with a gulp of water. My eyes are dry from having slept in my contacts, but as my bed partner turns and her hair falls to the side, there’s no denying what I’m seeing.
I slept with Amelia Owen.
I’m in Amelia Owen’s hotel room.
She’s wearing a pair of soft-looking flannel pajamas, the red and black buffalo check in stark relief against the crisp, white sheets. Her dark hair is in a pink silk scrunchie, exposing her face and the long column of her neck. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
This is bad. Very, very bad.
She shifts in the bed, making a soft noise deep in her throat. Her face scrunches, as if something is wrong, and I have the inexplicable urge to rub away the crease between her brows. What can possibly be bothering her?
I need to get out of here—and fast.
My shoes are placed at the side of the desk. Stumbling, I manage to get them on, and then slide my wallet and phone into my pockets. The hotel room key is in the back of the case, right where I left it.
Making a swift escape, I take the stairs down one floor to my room. There’s a housekeeper in uniform pushing a laundry cart, and she nods at me when I pass by.
Inside the room, I chug another bottle of water. It’s early—we don’t have to leave for morning skate for another two hours—but I’m wide awake, so I throw myself into the shower, shave, and dress in casual clothes. My headache has mostly receded by the time I make it downstairs.
The team rents out a meeting room for meals and activities, and I arrive as the catering dishes are being set out. I grab a plate and fill it up, my stomach simultaneously growling and protesting the sight of food.
Coach Turner is nursing his coffee, eggs and bacon on a plate beside a grapefruit.
“Morning, Coach,” I greet. We’re the only two in the room. It would be awkward to ignore him.
“Morning,” he grunts. He eyes me curiously, no doubt clocking the bags under my eyes. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He hums under his breath, stabbing at the grapefruit. “Let Doc know if you need to take something.”
“I’m fine for tonight. I’ll take a pre-game nap and make up for it.”
I’m sure I’ll sleep better without Amelia sharing the bed with me.
Fuck. How the hell did I end up in her bed?
The last thing I remember is drinking at the bar. She was at a table with some of the other staffers—including Andrews. Fucking Andrews. Is she fucking Andrews?
My stomach roils. I have no claim to her. I’m only her neighbor. But I don’t like the idea of her hooking up with some other dude.
Forcing myself to eat, I make it through the meal without being sick. Guys filter in, looking markedly better than I feel. MacGregor and Logan nod as they sit at the other end of my table.
“You okay, man?” Logan asks quietly.
I arch an eyebrow in his direction.
“You were pretty messed up last night,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
MacGregor hums. “Okay. But if you’re not, that’s okay, too. It must be hard, getting back out there.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Bringing the coffee cup to my lips, I prepare to take a sip when Amelia walks in, Andrews on her heels. I choke on the steaming hot liquid, my throat scalded.
“Shit, dude,” Gonzo says, slapping me on the back. I have no idea where he came from. “Breathe.”
“I’m okay,” I mutter, wiping my face with a napkin.
“What happened?” he asks, flopping into the seat beside mine.
“Swallowed funny.”
He gives me an odd look. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
Unfortunately, the commotion attracted attention, and I’m aware of everyone’s eyes on me.
Everyone, that is, except for Amelia and Andrews. They’re off in la la land, completely oblivious, as he hands her a plate at the buffet line. She smiles at him, the expression so unlike the scowl she aims my way.
Why does she like him?
And, more importantly, why doesn’t she like me?
Do I even want her to like me? We’re only neighbors; I don’t particularly like my other neighbors.
Fuck, I don’t know most of their names. Even in the house Harper and I shared for five and a half years, I didn’t make friends with anyone outside of those immediately next door to us.
And I wouldn’t say I made friends with them, per se, but we were amicable and chatted over the backyard fence line.
Since I moved into my condo the week before preseason started, I haven’t been home long enough to talk to anyone I don’t already know. Eight other players live in the building. It’s part of the reason why I chose that building over any other in the city.
Given that I’m in the last year of my contract, I could have gotten a one-year lease, but that felt like tempting fate.
Like if I didn’t put down roots, there wouldn’t be an opportunity to do so later.
Who knows where I’ll be this time next year?
Hopefully, I’ll still be with Boston, still playing the game I love.
But I’m all too aware this could all be gone in the blink of an eye. Fourteen years in the big leagues, two in the minors, three of college hockey, two of juniors, and a lifetime more before that.
I’m not ready to be done. I sacrificed my marriage to play hockey. I’m not ready to give it up yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.
Sooner or later, hockey will be done with me—whether I’m ready or not.