Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SAbrINA
“What? No. Say that again, please. I must not be hearing you right. There are no rooms available tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct. Unfortunately, we’re overbooked and can’t accommodate your reservation.”
“But that’s what reservations are for. To avoid this very thing.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but—”
“Stop calling me ma’am.”
The woman pinches her lips together and looks down at her computer. “I’m sorry, Miss Sutton, but there’s nothing we can do. Now, if you’d like to go to one of our sister hotels, I can arrange for transportation and—”
Her words fade into the background as I rub both hands over my face. I don’t want to go try at another hotel. It’s past eleven o’clock in the evening, and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is have a nice, long, hot shower, then crawl into bed. I don’t want to try my luck at another hotel when I’d booked this one for the night.
“Sabrina? Hey, Sabrina. What’s happening, Bean?”
Sure, why not add to my night of absolute bad luck by adding Max fucking Daws into the mix.
“Hey, Max,” I say with a dejected voice. “Nothing’s wrong. Just trying to get a room.”
“Didn’t the team reserve a room for you?”
It’s hard not to laugh hysterically in his face…and then break down into exhausted tears. Instead, I nod and motion to the woman behind the front desk. “They overbooked, and now my reservation is void.”
“But that’s what reservations are for. To avoid this situation entirely.”
“That’s what I said!” I give a non-laugh.
“As I said, I can arrange one of our shuttles to drive you over—” The clerk starts, but I’ve heard enough.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Max interrupts and grabs my hand. Pulling me and my suitcase away from the desk, he drags me to the elevator banks. “You can stay with me. I have a second bed in my room you can use.”
“Max. That’s a very kind offer, but I think—”
“Come on, Bean. You’re exhausted and I’m sure running on fumes at this point. Just take the room. I promise to be on my best behaviour.”
I roll my eyes. “The last time you said you’d be on your best behaviour, you stunk up our camping tent and tied everyone’s laces together.”
Max’s eyes flare in shock, probably because the memory is an old one.
“I can’t believe you remember that. But in my defense, the shoe thing was hilarious. I was a genius in pulling that off.”
“Debatable,” I mumble.
“And,” he emphasizes, “it wasn’t me that farted the whole night. I swear it was Marshall. I was sixteen and way past fart jokes by that age.”
“Typical you would blame your baby brother for the gas attack.”
He drags a hand over his chest in an X. “Cross my heart, it was a hundred percent him.”
“Jury’s still out.” Looking down at my bag, then over to the far doors, I shiver as a flurry of snow blows into the warm lobby. I really don’t want to have to go back out into that. Especially if there isn’t a guarantee of a room at the next hotel.
Standing as tall as I can, I look up at Max with my most serious face and nod. “Okay. If you’re okay with it, I would be grateful to take the extra bed in your room. It’s not ideal, but we’re adults. We can make it work.”
Reaching for my suitcase handle, he nudges my hand away and takes hold.
“Come on. Let’s head up.”
I hadn’t even realized he’d hit the elevator button, but like magic, as soon as he took control of my suitcase, the doors opened. Hesitating only a second, I follow him in and lean against the mirrored back wall.
A sigh escapes me. My whole body feels heavy with sleep, not used to a work travel schedule. This day has zapped all my energy. And tomorrow, I’ll have to do it again. Rolling my head to the side, I examine Max and his features.
I have a smidgen more respect for him after today. The travelling part of the job sounds fun and luxurious, but it’s hard on the body. Add a demanding professional hockey game to the day that not only tests his endurance but mental stability…damn, the man truly is incredible.
“What are you looking at?”
Blinking out of my thoughts, I shake my head and stand fully again. “Sorry, blanked out there for a second.”
The elevator doors ding open, and I rush off, feeling a little shy at being caught staring so intently.
“This way, Bean,” Max directs me with a tilt of his head. I walk slightly behind, dragging my feet. A click and a beep sound, but I’m too focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
“That’s you.” Max points to a still-made bed, closest to the door. “I would have given you the other one, but I’ve already made myself at home over there.”
“This is perfect,” I tell him, glancing over to the other bed and seeing the sheets already thrown back. “Were you already in bed?”
“Yeah. I tweaked my shoulder during tonight’s game and was icing it when I realized room service forgot my aioli sauce. Figured it was easier and faster if I just went down to the restaurant to get it.” He lifts what I thought was an empty hand to show me a small plastic container. Incredible. “It was pure luck that I ran into you in your hour of need.”
Yeah, just my luck , I think sarcastically. “It was not my hour of need. Maybe a mere moment of need that I could have figured out on my own. Eventually.” And after completely exhausting myself and my personal bank account. “Don’t make me regret this, Daws.”
He holds a hand up to his chest, offended. “I would never,” he replies in an old Southern accent.
“Idiot.”
Pulling my suitcase over to the bed, I hoist it up with an exaggerated moan. Unzipping the cute green swirl case, I dig through my clothes, searching for my PJs and toiletries.
“Do you mind if I take a shower? I feel”—I shake my body like the stale air from the airport is still hanging off me—“grimy.”
“Go for it. I’ll be here,” he says distractedly, already pouring his prized sauce over a plate of sweet potato fries.
My mouth waters looking at his dinner, but I’ll worry about food after my shower. That’s the priority of the moment.
Gathering all my things, I head into the adjoining bathroom and close the door. I eye the lock, wondering for a brief moment if I should lock it, but shake that thought away. As crazy as it sounds, I trust Max. It’s not like we’re teenagers anymore, playing pranks or messing with each other’s things.
If he dared come into this bathroom to flush the toilet while I was in the shower, I would murder him. Or, even more diabolical, ask a really embarrassing question during filming that he would have to answer in front of a room full of people.
I giggle to myself, just imagining the look on his face if I brought up the all-boys choir he was in back in elementary school. Priceless.
Taking my time in the shower, I stand under the hot water, washing away the stress of the day and the chill of the Boston weather. I am a Toronto girl through and through, so I’m used to cold weather, but damn, the bracing wind in Boston is something else. It cuts right through you, even on a mild November day.
By the time I get out, dry off, and go through my moisturizing routine, I’ve been in the bathroom for almost an hour. Coming out of the steam-filled room, I grin at Max, feeling so much better.
He grins back at me, and then his smile falls once he sees what I’m wearing.
“Oh my God, you’re obsessed with me.”
I knew he would spot what’s on my PJs within seconds—but I’d also hoped he would remain oblivious.
“Shut up, no I’m not. You know I’ve been a die-hard Toronto Nighthawks fan my whole life.”
“This, though, this is next-level obsession.” He points to my Nighthawk logo PJ pants.
“Colton got them for me a couple years ago for Christmas. And they’re my comfiest set, so look away, pervert, and don’t make fun of my style.”
A laugh booms out of Max. He throws back his head and falls into his stacked pillows. His amusement gets to me, and I chuckle at how ridiculous we both are. Falling back into friendship with Max, just like old times, has been easy.
I wish that’s all it was. Even with all my protesting that we aren’t friends, I know we are. I also know that something else has changed within me. Something is not the same as it was when we started this documentary.
Needing to change my direction of thought, I grab what I think is the room service menu from the side table and make my way to my bed.
“I got you a burger,” Max interrupts my pursuit of the options. “Figured you’d be hungry once you got settled, and I saw the way you were looking at my burger.”
“Oh” is all I’m able to say, staring at the brown box Max pointed to on the table across the room. I don’t know why, but the gesture has me choked up. “Thank you. I-I appreciate that. I was just thinking that I’m too tired to make a choice about anything right now.”
I hop off the bed, grab the box and the pile of napkins beside it, and bring it back to my original spot. Plumping up the pillows behind me, I wiggle into a comfortable spot and sigh in relief.
“Since you’re not making any decisions tonight, please enjoy the show I’ve selected too.”
My mouth is already full, so I just nod at him, not caring what we watch as I’m sure I’ll be asleep minutes after finishing my dinner.
The opening theme music plays, and within an instant, I know what we’re watching. Max grins over at me, and I give a “mmh” of approval. Only Murders in the Building is one of my comfort shows. I put it on in the background all the time when I’m working at home.
“Nice,” I say as I grab a fry. “Love this show.”
“I figured you did. You know, for such a sweet girl, you really do love murder.”
I snort at his description of me. Wiping my fingers on a napkin, I send him an amazed look. “You are probably only one of a handful of people that would call me sweet. I’m usually described as a bitch.”
“Nah, you’re not a bitch. You’re focused. A driven professional. Some people don’t like the fact that they can’t get under your skin, and they deflect by calling you that. I know better.”
Putting the half empty container on the floor beside my bed, I push myself down until I’m lying on my side and looking at Max. I’m shaken by the fact that he can see that in me. That he knows me so well that he can move beyond the gossip and name-calling that being a woman in sport usually comes with.
I don’t want to talk about myself. Not like this. Not now. That feels too exposing, and being this close with Max, both physically and emotionally, is already testing my strength.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Always,” he replies, turning so that he’s lying down and copying my position. With both hands tucked under his head, he makes his eyebrows dance, encouraging my question.
“Why does the team have a swear jar in the locker room? Are you raising money for something?”
His smile doesn’t fall from his face, but the grin becomes more thoughtful.
“I’ll tell you, but the secret can’t leave this room. You can’t tell anyone.”
“It’s a secret!” I say louder than I intended. A rush of excitement rushes through me. “Tell me. Tell me! I promise it will stay between you and me.”
“The rumour that Coach Taylor doesn’t swear is true. He’s tough with us, but he will use any other word in the world before he swears. You’d have to get him raging mad to even get a ‘damn’ from him.”
“No. That can’t be true.”
“I swear on my first pair of hockey skates that it is.”
My mouth gapes open. I’m truly shocked. Coach Taylor has only worked in the professional league for three years now, and his reputation is stellar…but I have no idea how this secret hasn’t been spilled yet.
“Does he make a big deal about it? Like, does he threaten the team with laps or something so no one gossips? How is this not known to the media?” My voice gets progressively higher as I ask my questions.
“I don’t think anyone thinks it’s a big deal. It definitely takes a while to get used to, but after that, being called a horsebutt or a buffoon becomes normal.”
“And the swear jar?”
“That started out as a joke last season. To see who could not swear for the longest amount of time. Then it just became something fun to do, and yeah, the money gets donated.”
“Who won last year?”
“Fucking Mason. The good ol’ boy.”
I scoff. That does not surprise me. Mason Warren is a golden boy through and through.
“That’s wild. Do you know why he doesn’t swear? Is it, like, against his religion or something?”
“From what I’ve been able to piece together, it’s because his wife is a kindergarten teacher. Opposites attract and all that.”
“Whoa. I actually love that. If it’s true he doesn’t swear because she can’t…or tries not to.”
“You never know, she could do enough swearing for both of them.”
I howl out a laugh, tickled at the image of a dirty-talking kindergarten teacher. When my laughter dies down, a huge yawn overtakes me.
“Sorry, the day is catching up to me,” I say as I sit up and adjust myself so that I’m under the sheets. “I think I’m going to—what the fuck?” I sit upright in a flash.
Max sits up too, on guard and looking around the room.
“What? What is it?”
I kick my foot out again under the sheets and feel the same thing.
“Eww! Eww! Oh God!” I cry, jumping up from the bed and bouncing to the floor. “Why is there a wet spot on my bed? Why is there a wet spot!”
Max is beside me in an instant, flinging back the sheets. We both stare in horror at a large, clearly damp spot at the bottom of the bed.
“Please don’t tell me—”
“It’s not,” Max cuts me off, thankfully not letting me voice the absolute worst. Taking a step down the bedside, he angles his body over the spot. “It’s water.”
My entire body deflates in relief. If it was anything else, I would have stayed in the shower, scrubbing my body all night.
“Maid service must have left something on the bed and it soaked through. The interior sheets would dry slower because they’re under the heavy comforter.”
I just nod, not really caring about the why, just the what.
“I’ll call down and see what the concierge can do about this. I know they can’t offer me a room, but maybe they have a huge blow-dryer or something.” Even my voice sounds dejected as I make up a solution. I’m too tired for this shit.
I am going to have a long chat with the team manager tomorrow about never booking this hotel chain again.
“Don’t bother,” Max says, halting my movements. “You can sleep in my bed tonight. It’s too damn late to do anything about that. We both need sleep, and if someone comes up to sort that shit out”—he waves his hand toward the spot—“it will be at least another two hours before we can get any shut-eye. That’s not working for me.”
I hate it, but he’s right.
“Where will you sleep though?”
He blinks at me, confused. “In bed.”
“With me?”
“What did you think I meant?”
“I thought you were being a gentleman and giving me your bed.”
“Oh. Bean. That’s cute, but no,” he says in a patronizing voice. “We’re both adults. We can sleep in the same bed without a scandal breaking out.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. He’s making sense. He’s being rational. But my mind is fully in the gutter.
I’d be sleeping next to him. Like, right beside him. In my Toronto Nighthawks PJs. They don’t scream sexy in any sense of the word, but…
“If I build a pillow wall between us, would that make you feel better?”
That breaks me out of my lewd thoughts. I close my eyes, letting a smile slowly spread across my face.
“Sounds perfect,” I concede.
Minutes later, with a pillow wall between us under the covers and our murder show still playing in the background, Max and I lie on our sides looking at one another.
“Good?” he asks, scanning my face.
“Good.” A comfortable silence begins. I feel warm and cozy in bed. Oddly safe too. I like knowing Max is close.
As my eyes slowly drift closed, Max whispers something that I can’t make out. There’s a gentleness to his voice that soothes a part of me that was still a little on edge from the day’s events.
My last conscious feeling before I let sleep take me is the gentle squeeze of another hand in mine, wedged between the pillows.