Chapter 8
Hunter
I woke up at six thirty with a dry mouth, a dull headache, and a deep hatred for Max McGuire.
I didn’t even drink that much. That was the embarrassing part.
One beer would’ve been fine. Two would’ve been fine if I had eaten enough.
But Max had convinced me to have bourbon because apparently he thought we were living in a country song, and I, like an idiot, listened to him.
Now my head felt like it had been used as a puck in warm-ups, and my stomach was making it very clear that I was no longer twenty-one.
I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about last night.
But the second my brain came online, there she was.
Catherine in that black dress. Catherine in the elevator looking up at me with those green eyes, tipsy and bold and honest in a way that almost killed me.
I just want you to fuck me. I groaned and dragged a hand over my face.
“Dammit,” I muttered.
I had almost lost my mind in that elevator.
No, scratch that. I had lost it. Just not all the way.
The drinks had burned off a level of control I usually kept locked down tight.
Sober me knew how to step back. Sober me remembered Cole.
Holland. Isla. The team. Catherine’s elective.
Every single reason this was a bad idea.
Drunk me still knew those reasons, but I cared a lot less when Catherine’s hand was on my chest and her mouth was soft and shiny from whatever gloss she wore.
I had wanted to take her right there. In an elevator. Like a complete lunatic.
I had wanted to slide that dress up her thighs, get on my knees, and find out if she tasted as good as she smelled.
I had wanted to hear her say my name without that teasing edge, without the brave face, without anything between us except skin and need.
Instead, Nate got on the elevator. I had never been so grateful and so close to murdering a teammate in my life.
After I got to my condo, I had paced for ten minutes like that was going to help.
It did not. I stripped out of my clothes, got in the shower, and got myself off to thoughts of Catherine in that black dress.
Then I did it again in bed twenty minutes later because apparently I had the self-control of a rookie on his first road trip.
I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed both hands over my face.
I needed coffee, water, and to forget that Catherine Celia Davis existed.
Two of those things were possible. I went to the kitchen and made a strong coffee.
While it brewed, I drank a full bottle of water and stared at my phone on the counter.
No text from Isla yet, obviously. She was at camp, living her best life and probably forgetting she had a father who missed her like an idiot.
It was good she was having fun, but it still sucked for me.
I poured coffee into a mug and leaned against the counter.
My condo was too quiet without her. No cereal bowls in the sink.
No pink hoodie thrown over a chair. No little voice asking if we could have waffles for dinner.
Just me, coffee, a headache, and inappropriate thoughts about my coach’s daughter.
I forced myself to go for a run because suffering seemed deserved.
The Dallas heat hit me like a slap the second I stepped outside, and I almost turned around.
But I needed to sweat out the bourbon and the bad decisions, so I put in my earbuds and ran until my lungs burned.
Six miles later, I felt slightly less like trash.
I came back upstairs, showered, and dressed for the arena for captain duties.
Everyone knew what Coach expected from me.
I was one of the older guys in the room.
I knew the organization. I knew the grind.
The rookies and prospects needed to see faces that weren’t only coaches, trainers, and doctors telling them what to do.
Cole asked me to meet some of them to build rapport, make the room feel less intimidating.
I also had a medical check-in, which I was less excited about.
My right shoulder had been annoying me since the end of last season.
It was nothing I couldn’t play through. But it had flared a little the other night when I was bench pressing in the gym with Catherine, probably because I was trying to show off and added a little too much extra weight.
I had a few years left before retirement became more than a word people whispered around me, and I wanted to make the most of them.
I wasn’t done. I made a big breakfast of eggs, turkey, avocado, toast, and a protein shake.
Then I grabbed my keys and headed to the arena.
The second I walked in, I reminded myself of the rules.
If I bumped into Catherine, I had to act professional and try not to remember her asking me to fuck her.
As if that would be possible. I stopped walking in the hallway and closed my eyes for one second.
“Get your shit together,” I muttered.
“Talking to yourself already?” I heard Max’s voice before I saw him.
I opened my eyes. Max stood near the equipment room with a grin on his face and a coffee in his hand.
“Go away,” I said.
“Strong leadership,” he cackled.
“Don’t you have something to do?” I was being a grump, and he didn’t deserve it, but he was Catherine’s cousin and I wasn’t any good at hiding feelings.
“Mostly avoiding mobility testing and hanging with Leo.” He shrugged.
“You look hungover,” he noted.
“I wonder why,” I said dryly. “I’m not built for nights out drinking anymore.”
He laughed. “Did that blonde message you?”
“Yes, shithead. Why would you give a woman like that my number?” I asked.
“Sorry, bro. I thought letting off some steam would help with your mood,” he replied.
“Thanks, but I don’t need that kind of woman,” I admitted.
“No? What kind of woman do you want? Maybe I can help.” He crossed his arms and watched me intently. He got around, but he was a good guy. He came from a good home where his parents were doting and lovey-dovey.
“Someone serious and kind but fun and pretty, who would be good with Isla too,” I went on like an idiot, picturing Catherine, which was a bad idea.
“Whoa, you don’t want a hookup. You’re ready to settle down,” Max said.
“I don’t know. The thought terrifies me. Everything is perfect in my life now. Why rock the boat?” I admitted.
“This is the Amy trauma talking,” Max observed.
I winced. “I thought we don’t mention her name.”
“Maybe we should,” Max urged. “It’s been years. The only way you’re going to get over it is by talking about it and figuring out why women still scare the shit out of you.”
I shook my head. “It’s good you aren’t a therapist. I better go.”
He chuckled. “Sorry I wasn’t more help. In all honesty, I probably need therapy too,” he called out as I walked away from him.
I headed toward the medical offices before anyone else wanted to give me their two cents about my mood.
Catherine was sitting at a desk in one of the smaller offices off the medical hallway.
Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing the navy scrubs again.
The ones that should not have done anything for me.
They were scrubs, but for some reason, they were so fucking hot.
I hoped she didn’t hear Max and me talking because that would be super embarrassing.
Besides, she was too young to settle down.
She looked exhausted. There were faint shadows under her eyes, and she had a coffee beside her laptop.
Papers were spread across the desk, and she was typing with the kind of focus that made me wonder how long she had been there. I should’ve kept walking.
“Morning,” I said, leaning one shoulder against the doorway.
She looked up, and for half a second, the elevator was right there between us.
Then she blinked and straightened. “Hi.”
“You look tired,” I said.
Her brow lifted. “Good morning to you too.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re right.” She glanced down at her coffee. “I am tired.”
Her cheeks went a little pink. That almost did me in.
“Had some trouble sleeping,” she said.
“Same.” I wanted inside her so bad that my hand wasn’t enough.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
She looked relieved to have a normal question. “Research project for school.”
I stepped a little farther into the doorway. “Yeah?”
Her eyes flicked to me. “You actually want to hear about it?”
“I asked.”
“People ask and then regret it when I start talking,” she warned.
“I’ll take my chances,” I replied. I was like a puppy dog when it came to her.
Everything about her intrigued me, and that was a big problem.
But it earned me a small smile. She turned the laptop slightly, though I didn’t move close enough to read over her shoulder.
“I’m tracking preseason injury risk.” She smiled again.
“Basically, I’m helping collect data on players coming into preseason.
Prior injuries, mobility screens, workload history, concussion baseline results, strength testing, pain reports, things like that.
I’m not diagnosing anyone or making treatment decisions.
I’m assisting with notes and data collection under Dr. Patel and the team’s sports medicine department. ”
I nodded. “And this is for school?”
“Partly. I’m dividing my time between the arena and Larkspur Medical Center so I can complete a summer project. If I can make something useful out of the data, it’ll look good on my CV. Maybe help with residency applications later.”
“Overachiever.”
She laughed softly. “I come from a line of overachievers.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
Her smile faded a little. “You do?”
“I grew up with Oli Russell as a father. People expect things from you before they know you.”
She leaned back in her chair, studying me. “Exactly.”