10. Riley #2
The audacity of this motherfucker.
“No way. Allen didn’t even want to be boyfriends,” said Riley. “He’s not saying yes until next Christmas.”
Jake jerked back like Riley had smacked him, knocking his head loudly against the wall. “No way—”
“Bye, Allen!” Riley called, giving Jake a light punch in the stomach. “Don’t say yes!”
“In his dreams, maybe,” was Allen’s reply.
Jake’s smile flipped into a frown, and Riley chuckled. “See? That’s my boy.”
He left before he could get dragged further into the squabble, and requested an Uber as he got onto the elevator, the day’s cheer fading as soon as the doors closed.
The Uber driver was already on his way, which was great because Riley didn’t feel like awkwardly waiting around in the lobby while people came and went from visiting family.
He just wanted to get home, collapse onto his couch, and catch up on any games he had missed—like the Edmonton one that he had heard was wild.
Riley was borderline tipsy, and the alcohol was doing wonders to calm his anxiety about seeing Sloan. Jake’s plan of making them live together so they could become friends didn’t seem possible, and he had a feeling he was going to be dealing with this stress for nothing.
Jake hadn’t been to any of Riley’s practice games to see what an unforgivable douchebag the guy was, barking orders like he was the captain, and pissing off everyone around him.
Hell, Riley had even been around to see Sloan get into a spat with one of the coaches one day, and it hadn’t been pretty.
How the moron still had a spot on the team was a mystery to him, but Riley was beginning to think Sloan had connections—like maybe he was engaged to the daughter of someone important.
There were probably other explanations, sure, but Riley got a kick from imagining Sloan paying or sleeping his way onto a team.
Fuck that guy.
It was pushing ten at night, so Riley wasn’t expecting to encounter Sloan until at least the next morning, but he’d forgotten that the one shared kitchen was by the front door and impossible to walk by unnoticed if anyone was cooking.
He was greeted by the smell of something delicious frying, and the sound of shitty pop music playing loudly over sizzling food.
Riley’s thought processing ground to a halt when he saw Sloan’s half-naked form standing in the kitchen, shoulders hunched as he stared intently at whatever he was making on the stove.
Sensing—or hearing—Riley’s arrival, Sloan spun around and lifted his spatula in greeting.
“Sup, buttercup,” Sloan said with a deceivingly charming grin. “How was your day at work? Need me to rub your feet and fetch you a drink?”
Ugh.
“I need you to not talk to me, jackass,” Riley said, pushing as much loathing into the words as he could. “Why are you making food this late at night? Aren’t you tired from moving all day?”
Riley had to pause to take off his shoes and jacket, giving Sloan the chance to swagger over wearing nothing but a pair of tattered grey sweatpants and a smirk that was already testing his patience.
“I just finished unpacking, and I didn’t think you were going to bring me turkey leftovers from your boyfriend’s place, so I had to make do.”
Make do, which meant Sloan was likely stealing Riley’s food, too.
“Jake isn’t my boyfriend,” said Riley. “He’s my childhood best friend, and I’m not into guys, so fuck off.”
Sloan had him cornered in the small entryway of the apartment, and even though it obvious Riley was trying to walk past him, Sloan refused to move aside.
“Not tall, dark and scary,” said Sloan. “I was talking about the pretty one. I thought you guys were dating because you went all macho and tucked him into your sweater like he was a defenceless damsel. That shit would have swept me off my feet, so excuse me for making assumptions.”
Right, he had totally done that to Allen. He had been so wired after seeing Sloan near Jake’s guy that he forgot how it might have looked.
“Jake and Allen are the ones who are dating. I was just making sure you stayed the fuck away from them,” said Riley. “Now, can you fucking move so I can go to my room and not have to look at your ugly face?”
Sloan didn’t have an ugly face—not that Riley would ever admit that out loud, or even to himself if he could help it.
If anything, the bastard was too pretty to be the foul-mouthed enforcer that he was.
Maybe it was the hair, the shock of white-blond that always looked like he had been running his fingers through it, or the sky-blue eyes that gave him a softer look and made him seem sweeter.
Or maybe it was his mouth.
Before Riley could catch himself for staring, Sloan prowled closer, moving with a loose, dangerous ease that had his pulse climbing higher in his throat.
Riley backed up without thinking until his spine hit the door hard enough to rattle it in its frame, and Sloan didn’t stop until he was right in front of him—close enough that Riley could feel the heat rolling off him.
That’s when his brain said fuck you, and his gaze dragged down helplessly to Sloan’s lips.
They were too plush for a guy who broke noses for a living, bow-shaped and pink, glossy from spit once Sloan swept his tongue over the bottom one. And the freckles—Christ, the freckles—scattered across his cheekbones like someone had flicked paint over porcelain.