13. Mason
Chapter 13
Mason
I wake up to an excruciating headache. It’s sharper than the time I got hit with a puck that was traveling a hundred miles per hour. It also has a more nauseating pain texture than the time I got bashed on the head with a hockey stick.
Maybe someone slammed my head against the ice this time? Or maybe they’re doing it right now?
No. The foul taste of tequila on my breath brings back some of the events from last night.
Sophia challenged me to a drinking competition.
Wait. Sophia.
I blink open my eyes and ignore the hellish pounding in my temples. She’s here, wrapped all over me, like the most wonderful blanket in the history of blankets.
Oh, shit. It’s all coming back to me now, including the part where I fucked her… and how amazing that was.
Or did I dream that part?
I gently slide her off me and sneak a peek under the covers.
Yep. We definitely fucked for real. I must’ve passed out before it occurred to me to discard the condom because there it is, still on the bed.
I grab the condom and carefully slide out from under the covers. As soon as my bare feet touch the floor, I stagger into the bathroom and use half a bottle of mouthwash in an attempt to rid myself of the tequila taste.
It doesn’t help. Neither does brushing my teeth. Giving up, I shuffle over to the kitchen and chug my custom-made electrolyte drink, which consists of coconut water, green tea, and freshly squeezed kale juice.
The drink seems to help a bit. Now instead of feeling like I’m being murdered, I merely feel like I’m being tortured.
Then it hits me. I’ve just drunk the whole concoction. When Sophia wakes up, she’ll need electrolytes as much as I did, or maybe even more.
So, despite the headache, I force myself to make more of the drink. I even add some carrot juice for sweetness—Ladybug seems to have a sweet tooth.
Drink made, I decide to also fix us some breakfast. Eating helps when hungover, even if it’s often the last thing you want to do.
As I chop the veggies, I let myself process the disaster that was last night.
I slept with my team’s owner.
No. Worse.
I got her drunk and then slept with her—and the fact that I was drunk myself is not a good excuse. The woman loathes me when she’s sober, so she only slept with me because of the tequila. Worse yet, I wanted her before the drinking even began. I blame her big boobs. And that mischievous glint in her amber eyes. Not to mention?—
There’s a loud thud in the bedroom.
Fuck! She must have fallen.
I sprint over there for all I’m worth, cursing myself for leaving her alone in the first place.
To my huge relief, it’s not Ladybug’s body that’s on the floor. Instead, my mattress is.
“Sophia?” I look around, then check under the bed.
It’s like she’s vanished into thin air.
Then I hear water running in the bathroom.
Rushing over there, I knock.
No reply.
“Sophia, are you okay?” I loudly demand.
“I’m peachy,” she shouts over the sounds of running water. “The mattress just slipped.”
Yeah, right. She must still be drunk.
I wait for her to finish, pacing the hallway as I do.
As I approach the bookshelf, one of the trophies I have displayed at the top tumbles toward my head.
Thanks to my hockey-honed reflexes, I catch the thing and glare up.
As expected, it’s the cat.
“That’s not funny,” I growl.
He looks like he disagrees. I sigh. No matter how many times I chastise him for such pranks, he still seems to think that pushing shit onto my head is fun. And so is dropping insects he kills into my food.
Spike’s retort is a look that seems to say, “I could’ve woken you up in the middle of the night again, but I was merciful.”
Then again, maybe he did try to wake me. I was so drunk I wouldn’t have noticed.
“Do that again, and there will be no salmon for a month,” I threaten, putting on my best poker face to make sure he can’t tell that I’m bluffing. Not giving him salmon is like not letting me on the ice—a form of cruel and unusual punishment that I obviously would only do for a day or two.
Spike swishes his tail, leaps down from the bookshelf, and rubs against my leg.
Yeah. That’s better. Too bad the threat only works for a very short while.
Done sucking up, Spike walks over to one corner of the room, where he takes great pleasure in shredding a lacy piece of fabric with his claws.
Wait a fucking second. “Bad cat,” I say to him sternly. “Those were Sophia’s panties.”
Speaking of Sophia, the water in the bathroom has stopped. I sprint back and wait for her to open the door—which feels like it takes another ten hours.
Finally, the door swings open, letting out a bunch of steam. Ignoring it, I scan Sophia for signs of injury. I find none, thankfully. To my disappointment, she’s completely dressed. And to my envy, she doesn’t look nearly as hungover as I feel.
“Are you stalking me by the bathroom now?” she asks curtly.
“What?” My headache intensifies as though the trophy did smash into my head.
“Forget it.” She takes in a deep breath, and her breasts bob up and down, making my cock stir. “I’d better go.”
“Wait.” I gesture in the direction of the fallen mattress. “Are you positive that you’re okay?”
Also, I recall she’s not wearing any panties, and the stirring in my cock turns into a monster hard-on.
She narrows her eyes. “Of course, I’m not okay . I never should’ve slept with you, that’s for starters. I also shouldn’t have let you convince me to drink all that tequila.”
I stagger back. “I convinced you?”
“Whatever.” She passes by me so closely I can smell the familiar notes of mango and watermelon. “I’m leaving now. Don’t you dare follow me.”
And before I can so much as offer another rebuttal—or the electrolyte drink—she rushes out of my apartment.
I exchange a confused glance with Spike, whose gaze seems to say, “May I suggest getting yourself neutered? It might make your life a lot easier.”