Chapter 8
AUSTIN
Itugged at my tie for the fifth time in as many minutes, feeling like it was strangling me more effectively than any opposing player ever had. Charity events were always a special kind of torture—dress clothes, small talk, and smiling for photos when all I wanted to do was be anywhere else.
Preferably back in my apartment, with Kate.
“You look like you’re being waterboarded,” Dennis said, appearing at my side with two glasses of whiskey. He handed me one. “Drink this. It might help with whatever’s got your face looking like that.”
I accepted the glass gratefully. “Thanks. Just not in the mood for this tonight.”
“When are you ever in the mood for these things?” He glanced around the ballroom of the downtown Minneapolis hotel where the team’s annual Children’s Hospital fundraiser was in full swing. “Though you’re usually better at faking it. What’s up with you?”
Images of Kate—flushed and moaning beneath me on my couch—flashed through my mind. I took a long sip of whiskey.
“Nothing. Just tired from PT.”
Dennis’s eyebrows shot up. “Bullshit. Did something happen with the science chick? You finally hook up?”
I kept my expression carefully neutral, but Dennis had known me too long.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, leaning closer. “You did! Stone Callahan got laid! Alert the media!”
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed, glancing around to make sure no one had heard him. “And it’s not like that.”
“Not like what?”
Before I could respond, Coach Martinez appeared, clasping my shoulder with his meaty hand.
“Callahan, glad I caught you. The team owner’s daughter is a big fan. Mind saying hello?” It wasn’t actually a question.
“Of course, Coach,” I replied automatically.
“Good man.” He gave Dennis a look that clearly meant ‘scram,’ then leaned in closer to me.
“Remember, you’re the face of our defense, injured or not. Team’s counting on you to represent us well tonight. Lots of sponsors and donors in the room.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Owner’s table, ten minutes.” He clapped my shoulder once more before striding away.
I downed the rest of my whiskey in one burning gulp, steeling myself for an evening of forced charm and empty conversations.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Normally, I’d ignore it during an event like this, but something—someone—made me check.
Kate
SOS. Blender exploded. Vanilla protein tsunami everywhere. Your laptop may have taken a direct hit. Hypothetically, how backed up are your training files and game footage? Asking for a friend who deeply regrets all her life choices.
Despite everything, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch upward. Quickly, I typed back:
SOS received. Step away from the electronics. Please. ETA two hours
“Are we boring you, Mr. Callahan?”
I glanced up to find Camille Wilson, a sports reporter, smiling at me. Her red dress matched her lipstick, and she stood close enough that I could smell her perfume.
“Sorry, important message,” I said politely, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “What can I do for you, Ms. Wilson?”
“Call me Camille, please.” Her smile widened as she touched my arm lightly. “I was hoping for a quick interview about your recovery timeline. Fans are desperate for updates.”
Six months ago, I might have found her attractive. Tonight, all I could think about was Kate—and whatever disaster she’d unleashed on my kitchen.
“Not much to report,” I replied, shifting away from her touch. “Following doctors’ orders, taking it day by day.”
“Surely you can give me something more...personal?” She leaned closer. “My viewers would love an exclusive insight into Austin Callahan’s private recovery journey.”
“The team releases all official updates,” I said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to meet with the owner.”
As I walked away, I fought the urge to check my phone again, mentally picturing my once-immaculate kitchen coated in sticky protein sludge.
Two excruciating hours later, I finally escaped the charity event, declining after-party drinks with teammates. All I wanted was to get home and assess the damage.
The elevator ride to my floor felt impossibly long as I braced myself, picturing sticky walls, lingering protein powder, and the fate of my laptop. I took a deep breath and opened the front door.
The kitchen looked clean. Suspiciously clean. The faint scent of vanilla protein powder still lingered, but everything appeared spotless.
But no Kate.
“Kate?” I called out, setting my keys on the entry table.
A muffled thump echoed from the guest bathroom, followed by a creative string of curses that would’ve impressed my teammates.
“One minute!” Kate’s voice was frantic. “Don’t come back here!”
Naturally, I went straight toward the bathroom.
Kate stood at the sink, furiously scrubbing her forearms, which were streaked with dried protein powder residue. Her hair, pulled into that messy bun I secretly loved, was damp, and my Minnesota Blizzard t-shirt hung loosely off her shoulders, covered in spots from the protein shake explosion.
She froze when she saw me in the doorway, eyes wide with embarrassment. “You’re early!”
“I’m exactly on time,” I countered, leaning against the doorframe. “Want to explain?”
She exhaled deeply, her cheeks flushed with guilt.
“I wanted to do something nice for you—make your special protein shake before you got home. I swear I checked the lid. But either it wasn’t on tight enough or that blender is out for blood—so, long story short, there was a vanilla protein explosion. Walls, ceiling, cabinets…me.”
I fought back a smile. “Yet, somehow the kitchen looks spotless.”
“Panic-cleaning for two straight hours works wonders. Did you know dried protein shake practically turns into cement?”
“I’m discovering that now,” I said dryly. “But the laptop…”
Kate winced visibly. “Yeah. About that. It was right next to the blender—open. It got completely soaked. I tried to dry it out, but…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes full of genuine remorse.
“I think it might be ruined. Please yell or something, because this whole silent-staring thing is terrifying.”
I rubbed a hand over my face, frustration briefly flaring.
My laptop contained all my rehab schedules, meticulous training notes, and hours of critical game footage.
Most of it was backed up to the cloud, thankfully, but the thought of sorting through the recovery process made my temples throb.
It wasn’t the end of the world. But in this moment? It was damn close.
“Austin, I am so sorry.” Her voice was small, anxious. “I know it’s important. Really important. If there’s any way I can fix it—”
“Kate,” I interrupted softly. She finally stopped talking and looked up at me, clearly bracing for my anger. “Take a breath. It’s a laptop.”
“A laptop with all your rehab notes and personal training files,” she pointed out, voice shaking slightly.
“Yeah, it’s valuable to me. But it’s still just a thing,” I admitted, stepping closer.
She eyed me warily. “You’re seriously not furious?”
“I’m not thrilled,” I said truthfully. “But it was an accident. And I’m not going to explode over a genuine mistake.”
She stared at me, clearly uncertain. “That’s…unexpectedly reasonable of you. Especially considering how you usually react to disorder.”
I smiled faintly. “Maybe I’m evolving.”
She laughed softly, visibly relaxing. “Like one of my bacterial cultures?”
“Let’s not push it,” I warned gently, stepping even closer.
Her smile faltered, turning serious again. “I’m just not used to people reacting calmly when I screw things up.”
The vulnerability in her voice tugged at me. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged, avoiding my gaze. “Academic circles aren’t exactly forgiving of mistakes. And my ex…he wasn’t exactly patient with my chaos either.”
“Your ex sounds like an asshole.”
Her lips curved slightly upward. “He was. Is. Definitely an asshole.”
“Look at me,” I said quietly.
She raised her eyes to mine, nervousness flickering through the warmth I saw there.
“I can recover the data. Eventually. I can get another laptop,” I said firmly. “But there’s only one you.”
Kate’s breath caught audibly. “How was the charity thing?”
“Boring as hell.” I reached out, gently brushing some leftover protein shake from her cheek with my thumb. “All I could think about was getting back here. To you.”
“Really? Even after I told you about the kitchen disaster?”
“Especially after that.” I leaned down until my lips were inches from hers. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Kate. You make me want to be less...controlled.”
“That’s probably not a good thing,” she murmured, her eyes dropping to my mouth.
“Or maybe it’s exactly what I need.”
I closed the distance between us, capturing her lips with mine. She tasted like vanilla protein shake and something uniquely Kate. Her hands immediately gripped my dress shirt, not caring that she was transferring protein sludge to the expensive fabric.
I backed her against the counter, deepening the kiss as her mouth opened beneath mine. Her soft moan shot straight to my groin, reminding me of all the sounds she’d made beneath me the night before.
“Wait,” she gasped, pulling back slightly. “We should talk about this.”
“About what?” I asked, trailing kisses down her neck.
“About...oh god, that feels good...about us. What we’re doing. What this means.”
I pulled back just enough to look at her properly. “What do you want it to mean?”
She blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “I...I don’t know. It’s all happening so fast. One minute you’re Mr. Wrong Number, the next you’re my grumpy roommate, and now we’re...”
“Fucking?” I supplied, enjoying the blush that spread across her cheeks.
“I was going to say ‘intimately involved,’ but yes, that too.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. This woman—brilliant enough to solve medical mysteries but adorably flustered by direct language—was undoing me in ways I hadn’t thought possible.
“Here’s what I know,” I said, cupping her face in my hands. “I like talking to you. I like sleeping with you. I even like finding you covered in protein shake after you’ve destroyed my laptop.”
“When you put it that way, I sound like a walking disaster,” she mumbled.
“You are,” I confirmed. “But for some reason, I’m into it.”
Her expression softened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I kissed her again, slower this time. “So maybe we don’t need to define it right now. Maybe we just see where it goes.”
“The scientist in me hates that lack of defined parameters,” she said against my lips. “But the woman in me thinks it sounds perfect.”
I lifted her onto the counter, stepping between her legs as her arms wrapped around my neck. “I’m going to need you to take off this shirt.”
“Because it’s covered in sludge?” she asked innocently.
“Because it’s in my way,” I growled, already sliding my hands underneath to feel her warm skin.
She laughed, the sound turning into a gasp as my fingers skimmed the underside of her breasts. “Your tie is also in the way,” she pointed out, already working to loosen it.
I helped her remove it, then started on my shirt buttons while she watched with hungry eyes.
“You know,” she said conversationally, as if we weren’t about to have sex, “there’s scientific evidence suggesting that physical activity helps accelerate healing in certain injuries.”
I raised an eyebrow, shrugging off my shirt. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Ellis?”
“Absolutely.” She reached for the button of my dress pants. “I’d be remiss in my duties as a scientist if I didn’t recommend a thorough...physical therapy session.”
“And they say romance is dead.” I laughed, helping her pull the flour-covered shirt over her head, revealing she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath.
“Fuck,” I breathed, taking in the sight of her perched on the counter, half-naked and perfect.
“That’s the general idea,” she quipped, but her sassy comeback dissolved into a moan as I lowered my mouth to her breast.
I lost myself in the taste of her skin, the sounds she made as I teased her nipples with my tongue, the way her legs tightened around my waist. This woman—brilliant, chaotic, utterly unique—was becoming an addiction I had no intention of breaking.