Chapter 13
AVERY
Oh God. I feel like hammered shit.
My head. My stomach. My burning throat. Did I mention my head? Because holy shit, my head.
Wait, was it supposed to be light yet? This was winter so…
“Goddammit,” I croaked, and I felt around until I found my stupid phone on the nightstand. The screen was blurry as hell, but I managed to find the button to turn off the alarm. Then I closed my eyes and let the silence soothe my head for a minute or two.
I needed to reset my alarm, though. I did have to be up at 6:30 if I wanted to get to breakfast on time and get on the bus for the morning skate.
I fumbled with the phone again, and then squinted my aching eyes at the screen until the numbers came into focus.
6:31.
Are you kidding me?
How the hell was it already time to get up? And how the hell was my room this dark?
I lay back and rubbed my throbbing forehead. Today was going to suck. I’d already been up to puke twice, and I wasn’t sure that was over yet. I had no idea how I was going to get food down my throat, never mind keep it there. Practice? Then play a game? Fuck me.
I wanted to just go back to sleep and stay that way until my hangover was gone. Besides, maybe if I fell asleep now, I could slip back into that dream. The one where, instead of Rachel releasing that distraught scream over and over, Peyton had been in here with me.
God, I wish that kiss had been real.
Clarity knifed its way through my miserable haze. I replayed that moment in my dream when I’d finally worked up the courage to kiss Peyton.
My dreams were vivid, but not that vivid. I could have some pretty intense sexual dreams, but I’d never felt the softness of a guy’s lips or the scuff of his beard when I’d kissed him in a dream. Only…
Only in real life.
I stared up at the darkened ceiling as horror curdled alongside the nausea in my angry stomach. That was also when I realized I wasn’t naked or in gym shorts the way I usually slept. This shirt… these pants…
I’d lost my jacket and tie at some point, but this was the suit I’d been wearing last night. Wearing to the bar. Where I’d been drinking. And I didn’t remember leaving the bar to come back to my room. Except I very vaguely did remember—
Oh, fuuuck.
That kiss had been real, hadn’t it?
So had his startled expression, and he hadn’t been startled like someone who’d been pleasantly surprised by a kiss. In the moment I hadn’t understood a thing I’d read on his face, but now I could see—hell, I could feel—the WTF? and not in a good way.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I gritted out, rubbing a hand over my face as a third trip to heave in the bathroom threatened to happen. No, that kiss couldn’t have been real, though. Right? Because I distinctly remembered it happening in here. In my room. Why would Peyton be in my room?
Yeah. Why would he?
He hadn’t even been at the bar with me and the guys last night. Some of our teammates had come and gone, but Peyton hadn’t been there. I’d have noticed if he was, because I always noticed when he was nearby.
So no, there was no way he’d wound up in my hotel room last night.
The fresh nausea steadily receded. I was working myself up over nothing.
It was a dream. Period. I’d had a few drinks last night, passed out in my clothes, and then had a stupid dream about kissing Peyton and him clearly not being into it.
Blame the booze. At least I hadn’t had that awful recuring nightmare again—mission accomplished.
I swallowed a few times to be sure whatever remained in my stomach stayed put. Then I carefully got up, indulging in a groan when that made my head throb more.
A hot shower and a little too much ibuprofen helped. So did a bottle of water.
Hadn’t the cleaning staff left two bottles, though? Because I could’ve sworn there were two when I checked in, and I hadn’t touched either of them.
A moment later, I found the second bottle—empty in the trash.
No idea when I’d drunk that one, but okay.
I pulled on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, made sure I had my phone and keycard, and took my pounding head downstairs for breakfast. That weird-ass dream had mostly faded along with the worst of my headache, though it pecked at me a little, too. Mostly because I wished it had actually happened.
The part where Peyton and I kissed, anyway. Not the part where he’d pushed me away. That had sucked.
But if he kissed in real life the way he had in that dream?
Oh my God. Yes, please? Where do I sign up?
Then I walked into the hotel’s banquet hall for breakfast, and when my gaze landed on Peyton…
Ooh shiiit. Last night hadn’t been a dream, had it?
Because that would explain why Peyton jerked his gaze away from mine and buried it in his breakfast. His breakfast, which he was barely picking at. It would explain the sudden color that rose in his face.
Well, this would be fun to sort out.
For the moment, there was nothing I could do or say. Not in front of our teammates. Instead, I did the best I could to act normal: I got some coffee, loaded my plate, and joined my usual group of guys.
My ass had barely hit the chair before Peyton got up.
“I need to go pack,” he muttered. “See you guys on the bus.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He bused his dishes, and then he was gone.
Well… shit.
“What was that all about?” Eminem asked.
“Hell if I know,” I lied as I dug into my food. “Were you telling stories about Baddy’s cooking again?”
“Hey!” A grape flew across the table and bounced off my forehead. The impact didn’t help my headache, but I laughed and played it as cool as I could.
“What?” I asked innocently. “If you told him about that time you tried to make lasagna, I don’t blame him for leaving.”
That had everyone at the table nodding and murmuring in agreement while Baddy crossed his arms and huffed. “Fuck you, Calds.”
I snickered. “But I’m not wrong.”
“Fuck. You.”
At least that pulled everyone’s focus away from Peyton’s sudden departure.
Everyone except me, anyway. The chair he’d abandoned may as well have been a flickering fluorescent light for all I could ignore it.
The only thing that kept me shoveling food into my face was the need to keep up appearances.
I didn’t want anyone catching on that something was off between me and Peyton.
Especially if it was “off” the way I thought it was.
Christ, what had happened? I didn’t remember a goddamned thing except being in the bar and then dreaming—or not—that Peyton and I had been kissing.
It took so, so much work not to visibly cringe every time I thought about that, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. When it had just been a wild dream, it had made me shiver because holy hell, I wanted that man.
Now that I knew it was real, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Was there any coming back from this? Was Peyton angry? Embarrassed? Reporting me to the team right the hell now for sexual harassment?
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuuuck.
He and I needed to talk about this, and we needed to do it soon. Straighten things out as best we could. Do whatever damage control I needed to do.
I ate as much as I could stomach, plus a little more just to sell my teammates the story that I was fine, perfectly fine, and had no earthly idea why Peyton had bailed the second I’d sat down.
Then I casually left the banquet hall and headed upstairs.
I had to resist the urge to sprint out of the elevator and down the hall, especially since some of my teammates were out and about.
Act casual. Don’t let anyone suspect anything.
Finally, I was in my room. Now…
Now I just had to figure out what the hell to do.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I chewed my lip and debated what to do next.
We had to talk. We didn’t have a lot of time before we needed to be on the bus, but we needed to clear the air before we had to be on the ice together.
If we were off during practice, that could throw off the whole team and screw us for tonight.
I grabbed my phone, pulled up his contact, and sent him a text.
Did something happen last night?
It seemed like a cowardly approach, but I wasn’t sure what else to say. Asking if I’d kissed him would make things supremely weird if I hadn’t. Telling him we needed to talk would just put him on edge.
As I stared at my stupid message, the word “Read” appeared underneath it, sending my heart into my throat. Then the three dots appeared, and I held my breath.
Peyton started and stopped typing a few times. Finally a message came through.
We should do this face to face. I’ll be up in 5.
My stomach knotted. Then it tightened even more when I realized he hadn’t asked which room was mine.
Because he already knows.
I tossed my phone aside and buried my face in my hands.
Oh my fucking God.
I was still self-flagellating when there was a quiet knock at my door.
I opened it, and all I had to do was make eye contact, and I knew which of my low-resolution memories were dreams and which had been very, very real.
The uncomfortable expression. The renewed color.
The way his eyes flicked away from mine.
I let him in and shut the door behind us. We stood in awkward silence for a long moment, several feet of space between us. He was by the TV stand, and my skin crawled; that was where it happened, wasn’t it? I’d grabbed him and kissed him right there, pushing him back against—
Fuuuck.
Shoulders dropping, I looked away from him. “I’m sorry. Let’s just get that out of the way upfront. I… Jesus.” I raked a hand through my hair. “I am so sorry. I don’t even remember everything, but I remember enough, and I want to say I don’t do shit like that, but obviously I do.”
“I get it.” Peyton’s voice was even. Not hostile, but not overly warm either. “You were pretty drunk, so you weren’t yourself.”
My face burned even hotter. I was glad he understood, but I couldn’t say I felt any better. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.