Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
TYLER
Where the fuck am I? I wonder, as I blink awake into darkness. What the hell time is it?
Turning my head is a mistake of epic proportions. Pain lances through my temples, and my gut roils. I realize belatedly that my mouth tastes like I licked a bar floor, and I clench my jaw, sucking in a heavy breath as my stomach tries to mount an escape.
If I could see in the darkness, the room would definitely be spinning.
Groaning, I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and stay as still as I can to try to staunch the ache and force my stomach to stay where it belongs.
But when the covers shift and I hear the telltale sound of skin sliding over crisp sheets, feeling the warmth of a body close to mine and feet that are not my own dragging over my right calf, I jerk away as if I was just burned, my simmering hangover—or possibly the fact that I’m still kind of drunk—suddenly the least of my concerns.
“Whattimesit?” The slurred voice is female. I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve woken up with an anonymous woman in my bed, but it definitely is not. I did some stupid shit my first couple of years in the NFL. My stupid days are behind me though.
Except I’m lying next to a stranger right now, and I’m still mostly drunk at dawn—or at least I was until I discovered another human in my bed—so it’s possible I’m still right in the middle of the stupid.
I realize, belatedly, that I’m still fully dressed in the clothes I wore out last night, right down to my belt.
Fuck me, I’m tired. And probably need to do something about the stranger-danger situation I suddenly find myself in.
Gathering my courage, I turn my head slowly.
There’s just enough light coming through the partially open curtains to make out long, tangled dark hair and closed eyes.
With my own eyes adjusting to the darkness, I spot one bare, toned leg lying on top of the covers, foot still strapped into a silver high-heeled sandal, and I can see enough to know that whoever this is, she’s still wearing clothes too, her deep breathing telling me she’s back asleep, if she was ever even really awake.
“Too fucking early.”
What the fuck.
At the second mumbling female voice, I shoot up, clambering out of bed before I even realize I’m moving.
I trip over a pair of shoes scattered haphazardly on the floor and slap a hand on the nightstand with a grunt before I faceplant directly into it.
Taking a deep breath, I lean into the nightstand, locking my knees and gritting my teeth when my stomach churns ominously.
It’s possible mixing whiskey and beer with a vodka chaser was not my best decision.
Seemed like a good idea at the time though.
At least eighty percent sure I’m not about to throw up all over the floor, I stand straight.
Moving slowly, I tiptoe over to the other side of the bed and glance down to see another woman sprawled over a nest of blankets and pillows, already back asleep and snoring.
She’s wearing a short, sparkly dress, one thin strap falling down over her shoulder.
Black makeup is smeared under her eyes, and she has what looks like sunglasses holding back her hair along with tangled strands of green, purple, and gold beads looped around her wrist.
I force my brain to think back, searching for some memory of how I ended up in what I’m pretty sure is my own room, judging by the Super Bowl champion T-shirt and hat lying in a heap on the floor, with one woman in bed next to me and one woman on the floor at—I glance over at the clock on the nightstand to see it’s just before five in the morning.
I think hard, last night coming back at me in flashes.
Throwing the Super Bowl winning touchdown.
Holding the Lombardi trophy surrounded by my teammates.
Hugging Sophie and my parents under the falling confetti.
Hearing my name announced as Super Bowl MVP.
Tears. So, so many of the happiest tears I’ve ever cried.
An after-party. Dancing at a club. Drinks.
So, so many drinks. So much fucking fun.
Stumbling down Bourbon Street with Drew.
Women. So, so many women. Two of whom I evidentially brought back to my room for reasons unknown.
Unexpectedly, I get an image of my parents from yesterday.
The way they both hugged me after the game.
The way my dad kept his arm around my mom, as if any space between them was unacceptable.
The way she looked at him like he is her everything and the way he kissed her like they were all alone and not on a football field full of people.
My parents have been deeply, wildly in love for more almost thirty years, and I’m standing in a hotel room after the most important day of my entire life looking at two sleeping women whose names I don’t even know.
The familiar feeling starts the way it always does. My skin, too small for my body. The buzzing in my ears. The tightening in my gut and the way my hands open and close to stop them from shaking.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the feeling.
This is not the way Super Bowl MVPs are supposed to feel.
I’m suddenly struck with the overwhelming urge to run.
I need to move.
My gaze flies around the room, cataloguing everything I need.
I grab my phone and wallet from the nightstand, slipping both into my pocket as I shove my feet into shoes.
When I don’t immediately see my room key, I think fuck it.
I’ll get another one later. If these women want to steal my clothes and whatever, let them. I’ll buy new shit.
Belatedly, I scoop up the Super Bowl Champions hat and shove it backwards onto my head, tucking the matching T-shirt into my back pocket. Bury me with both of them. I’m a motherfucking Super Bowl champion. Fuck yes.
But I can’t stay in this room for one more second.
Tiptoeing out of the bedroom and straight to the door, I open it and slide out, closing it quietly behind me. The second I’m standing in the hallway, my shoulders fall from where they were hunched up around my ears, and I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
I walk down the hall on autopilot, my subconscious taking me exactly where I want to be without me having to direct my feet there.
Lifting my hand, I knock on the door—three knocks in quick succession followed by two slower ones.
When the door doesn’t immediately open, I do it again, and then one more time before I hear a dramatic shuffling and a muttered curse that makes me snicker.
“Fucking what?”
Sophie’s disgruntled voice has a wide grin spreading over my face.
Her hair is wild, and her whiskey-brown eyes are narrowed into slits as she looks at me like she wishes I was very, very dead.
The knots in my stomach immediately loosen, the tremble in my hands disappearing.
She’s wearing a white Renegades T-shirt she stole from me a million years ago, fuzzy pink socks pulled almost all the way up to her knees, and a pink silk sleep mask with embroidered eyes on the front shoved up over her forehead.
Seeing her standing in front of me is better than the deepest breath I could take.
“Hey, Sal.”
Sophie growls, propping a hand on her hip and glaring at me. “It’s five o’clock in the fucking morning, Tyler. What are you doing here? And why are you still wearing last night’s clothes?”
I suck air through my teeth, not looking forward to the what the fuck is wrong with you look she’s going to give me when I tell her about the women in my suite.
The way I abandoned ship like my room was the Titanic and the iceberg was dead ahead.
And I’ll deserve it. The guy who wakes up with women in his bed and then leaves them there and bails is not exactly the kind of guy I want to be. “About that…”
She shakes her head vigorously and then winces, slapping a hand to her forehead as if she’s trying to make sure her head stays in place. “You know what? No. I really, really don’t want to know.”
At Sophie’s obvious pain, thoughts of the women in my room, my own simmering hangover, and all those pesky anxious feelings I try my damndest not to feel fly right out of my head. “You have a headache.”
She lets out a short laugh. “It’s basically still the middle of the night. I only stopped drinking three hours ago. Fucking yeah, I have a headache.”
Stepping into her room, I close the door behind me and take her hand, leading her to the bed and pushing her down gently onto the tangled sheets. “Lie down.”
She sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Ty, seriously, what are you doing here?”
I head to the bathroom, taking my phone out of my pocket to use as a flashlight so the overhead light doesn’t make her headache worse. “Well, now I’m taking care of you. I said lie down, Soph. Your head will feel better if you’re not holding it up.”
With a huff, she does as I ask, and I rummage around in her makeup bag for the painkillers I know she keeps there.
I shake out six and down three with water I drink directly from the sink before going back into the room, grabbing the pink water bottle from her nightstand that I know will be full of cold water and then sit on the edge of the bed next to her.
“Take these.” I hand her the rest of the pills and flip open the top of the water bottle, holding it to her lips.
She takes the pills and falls back against the pillows, her eyes dropping closed.
“I know how to deal with a hangover,” she mutters.
“I wouldn’t be feeling this particular hangover if you hadn’t come pounding on my door at stupid o’clock in the not-even morning.
” Her eyes suddenly fly open. “I’m not even wearing any pants. ”