Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
DAISY
The pillow beneath me moves when I burrow myself closer to it, fighting against the light threatening to pull me from my sleep. It slides away and I mumble a protest when I fall onto something much softer. I blink, trying to compute what just happened.
It takes me a second to realize that I’ve been snuggling up to the six-foot hockey player currently getting dressed like he can’t wait to get out of here.
His eyes find mine, looking sheepish when he pulls his shirt out from under my jeans. The same jeans he was peeling off of me with his teeth last night. “You’re awake.”
I’m suddenly very aware that I’m sprawled out naked on his bed. My fists tighten in his bedsheets, tugging them closer around me as I sit up against his headboard. It doesn’t feel like enough, so I draw my knees to my chest. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” he says, one hand scratching the back of his head like he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. And I realize that he was going to leave me in his bed.
God, I don’t know what’s worse—waking up without him here or watching him sneak out. Talk about a mortifying end to a night that should have never happened.
“I’ve got practice,” he adds a little too quickly, and I realize he’s probably reading all of my emotions on my face again, the way he always seems to be able to. “You can stay here as long as you want.”
I roll my eyes, swallowing down the clammy feeling washing over me. As if I want to stay in his bed, when he’s rushing out of here like he can’t get away from me fast enough.
“Enjoy practice,” I bite out.
He finishes getting dressed and then he’s moving to the door of his bedroom. He halts, his fingers running through his hair when he glances back at me briefly. “See you later?”
He says it like a question, as if I don’t live here.
I nod, too scared that my voice will fail me if I try to speak, and I refuse to let him see any more of me than he already has.
How can the same person who made me feel on top of the world less than eight hours ago make me feel so small in the light of day?
Seemingly satisfied by my answer, he shuts his bedroom door on the way out. And just like that I feel like I’m in enemy territory, left on the battlefield to fend for myself and not knowing where the next hit will come from.
I need to get out of here. Fast.
I slide out of his bed and drag his sheet with me, folding it around me while I gather my clothes.
I don’t mean to snoop but his room is nothing like I expected—no stark white walls and flatpack furniture—it’s all warmth and soft sunlight. A place full of life.
He’s got a Southbay Wolves sweatshirt tossed over the back of his desk chair, a photo of the team sticking out of his textbook, like it was the only bookmark he could find.
The shelf above his desk it littered with trophies and framed photos.
My eyes catch on the picture to the left: a middle-aged guy hoisting up a young Connor in skates and a slouchy jersey, two sizes too big for him.
He can’t have been more than six or seven; his toothless smile makes him look even younger, perched on his dad’s shoulder and holding up a tiny plastic trophy.
The photo is faded and the frame dusty. There’s a medal hanging from the side of it.
I trace my finger across it, feeling the inscription etched into it.
Son of the year.
Strange. He has more trophies and medals here than I can count—from man of the match to championship cups—yet this is the one he keeps front and center.
I turn away from the shelf and continue to search for my clothes.
I find my shirt and jeans on the floor, my panties somewhere beside them.
My bra has somehow ended up hanging off the handle of his bedside drawer.
I tug at it, intending to free it from the handle, but the strap twists and the drawer slides open instead.
My eyes catch on the scrap of red lace inside lounging on a bed of small, shiny square packages. My chest squeezes and I feel like someone sucked all of the air from it. I stuff the bitter feeling far, far down in the dark where I can’t dissect it.
Of course Connor has a drawer filled with condoms and thongs. It wouldn’t surprise me if there was a whole collection in there.
It’s exactly what I would expect from someone who knows how to use his tongue the way he does, and it’s the perfect reminder of why this thing between us should have never happened and why it can never happen again.
Not wanting to spend another second in here, I dash from his room with my clothes in hand, making sure I take my panties with me.