13. Blake
Chapter thirteen
Blake
L ight bleeds in through the open patio doors, early, pale, and way too eager. My eyes crack open slowly, as though my lids are made of stone.
For a second, I have no idea where the hell I am. My body feels wrecked, in a good way. The sofa underneath me is soft. The air still carries the faint trace of non-alcoholic wine and scorched lasagna.
Then I feel her.
Cassy’s curled against me, her leg tangled with mine, and one arm is flung across my chest, like she owns it. Her face is pressed just under my collarbone, hair everywhere, mouth slightly open.
That’s when last night crashes back into my head like a freight train.
Her mouth, my hands, that goddamn bra she flung halfway across the yard like it wronged her.
Yeah. That happened. All of it.
My mouth tugs into a smile. And then, fuck! McCullum.
The thought hits like a slap.
Cassy’s father. The man who threw me off the team. The man I accidentally punched. The man who might very well still want to run me over with a ten-ton truck.
Do I tell her I want to talk to him? Let her in on it before I show up? Or just do it, clean and fast, before she has time to panic or talk me out of it?
If I tell her, we might fight. We’ve only just found our way back to...whatever this is.
No. Screw it. I’m talking to him. Without warning. I’ve got to fix it. Somehow.
That bridge is a mess of charred planks and bad blood, but I’m going to walk across it like hot coals if I have to. And after that, I’ve got to get back on the damn team.
I need to be out there, playing. Competing. Bleeding for something.
But what if McCullum throws down an ultimatum? What if he says something like, ‘You want back in? Then leave my daughter the hell alone.’
No. He wouldn’t. He couldn't. ...Could he? Shit .
Cassy stirs beside me, her body stretching against mine like a slow, sleepy cat. She yawns into my chest, then nuzzles closer like I’m some kind of pillow made out of sex and testosterone.
I wish I could stay like this. Just lie here, all damn day.
Her eyes crack open again and lock with mine. A wide, soft, ridiculously smug grin spreads across her face like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Morning, babe. Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” she stretches again, her arms overhead like she’s reaching for heaven—or maybe just trying to make me look at her chest, which, okay, mission accomplished. “But my back’s aching a bit.”
She glances down between my legs, and that grin of hers goes full devil. “Wow.”
“Morning glory,” I mutter. “I get it every morning like clockwork.”
She sits up like she’s just remembered she’s supposed to be somewhere that isn’t here naked on my sofa. “Shame I’ve got to get going. Need to get back home and change for work.”
“It’s okay, I understand. I…I want to get in early anyway. Got something important I need to sort out.”
Her eyes flick toward mine. Curious, but not curious enough to ask. Instead, she leans back down, plants a kiss on my mouth, soft but distracted, and pulls away, looking almost panicked. “Now, where’s your bathroom? I need it like NOW.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Out of here, down the hall, take a left before the kitchen, and it’s on the right.”
She glances down at herself and mutters something that sounds like a curse. Probably realizing she’s got to streak through my house completely naked. Not that I’m complaining.
“Go on,” I'm still smiling. “I’ll get our clothes from outside.”
She scrambles up, not bothering with modesty. She’s confident like that. Leaves nothing to the imagination and somehow makes it hotter.
She heads through the living room toward the front of the house, her bare feet slapping against my floor, and I get up and move toward the patio doors.
The morning air creeps in, reminding me exactly how wild last night got. The backyard still looks like the aftermath of a wild tornado.
Somewhere out there is her bra, probably stuck in a tree, and I’ve got about two minutes before some random 747 flies overhead with an over-deloused passenger looking down with one of those high-powered zoom lenses, and sees something they’ll never unsee.
I spot her dress half-draped over the back of a chair, my shirt tangled in the bushes, one of her heels planted in the grass like it lost a fight with gravity, and… yep, there’s the bra. Not in a tree. Under the table. Of course it is.
I bolt outside like I’m doing suicides at practice. Grab the heel. Snatch up the dress. My shirt, boxers, pants, her underwear… H ow did that end up there? Doesn’t matter. Shoes, bag, all of it is bundled in my arms like some perverted laundry service on meth.
On my way back in, I pass the table, glance down, and instantly regret it. Two plates of sadistic culinary war crimes sit there. Cold. Black on the outside, wet and raw inside. It gives me a full-body shiver. That crap tasted like depression and regret.
Sliding the doors shut feels like closing the lid on a grave.
Goodbye, lasagna.
I yank on my boxers and pants just as she comes back in, looking like a completely new woman. Still naked. Still flawless. Like her trip to the bathroom somehow involved a full spa session and angelic rebirth. I hand her the clothes and bag.
She’s got goosebumps on her arms, but looks like she couldn’t care less. “That’s better.”
I toss my shirt on, still warm from the rising sun. “Coffee?”
She glances at the clock. “Better not. But if you want, and you’re not busy, maybe tonight I’ll come over and cook for us. Something we can actually eat.”
She pulls on her panties and bra, steps into her dress, zips it up with one fluid move that probably shouldn’t be as sexy as it is, and slips back into her heels like she’s been doing it since birth.
I grin. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d really like that. But before you go… I just need to do something.”
She’s fixing the strap on her dress when I reach for her, pull her into me, and kiss her. Hard. No warning. No permission asked. Just need.
Her hands are back in my hair, mouth crushed to mine like she’s starving all over again. By the time we break, she looks at me like that dress is about to hit the floor again, but instead she sighs, kisses me once more, softer this time, and steps back. “Talk to you later.”
And then she’s gone.
I stand for a second, still tasting her on my lips, wondering if I should’ve just pulled her back in and said screw whatever meeting she’s got. But then I hear the silence. No more heels tapping. No more perfume hanging in the air. She’s really gone.
I shower quickly, blasting the cold water for the first ten seconds until my system adjusts. I need it. My body’s sore, not from any game, but from her. It’s worth it, every second of it.
Dressed in a black tee and track pants, I hit the floor and get through some stretches. My hamstrings are tight, and my right shoulder’s stiff. Nothing new. Breakfast is two eggs and toast, not exactly five-star, but better than that carbonized lasagna catastrophe from last night.
Upstairs again, I grab my gear bag from under the bed, toss in my gloves, skates, pads, and compression shirt. Puck tape and my lucky jockstrap, don’t judge.
I run a comb through my hair in the mirror, not because I care much, just out of habit. Then I lean in closer. Hairline check.
Still there. Still solid. Idiots.
That locker room memory hits out of nowhere. Brody smirking like a gremlin, Bishy and Thumper saying it deadpan like they’d just diagnosed me with terminal hair loss.
Assholes.
But I seriously do miss Thumper, though. Miss his dry sarcasm, the way he never smiled but always made you laugh. Quiet but deadly on the ice. That kind of teammate sticks with you.
Then Bishy. Shit . That one’s raw. I know I screwed it. Said things I shouldn’t have. Did things I definitely shouldn’t have. Have to fix that. Somehow.
My bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and phone from the dresser. I head downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. At the front door, I pause with my hand on the knob.
Another flashback, Cassy last night, barefoot, laughing, her mouth tasting like burnt wine. Her thighs around my hips, whispering my name like it was the only word she knew.
I shake it off. Can’t let that distract me. Not today.
And McCullum? Well, that's going to be a whole other war zone.
Outside, the truck’s parked where I left it, the sun already heating the metal. I unlock it, open the driver’s door, and toss the gear bag onto the passenger seat.
The smell of old tape and energy drinks hits me like muscle memory. I slide into the seat, crank the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life.
Time to see if I’ve still got a job left worth fighting for.
As I turn onto Frank Sinatra Drive, the Silver State Arena cuts up into the skyline like a punch in the gut. That building’s seen me bleed, win, lose, and lead. And now? Now I’m the guy who threw a punch at the head coach...Cassy’s father.
The security barrier comes into view, and my grip tightens on the wheel.
Come on. You're still that Captain. Time to bite your tongue and dig yourself out of this pit you've dug.
I drop the window as the security guard steps forward, his grin already in place. He’s a stocky guy, name’s Mason or Miles or something with an M. He’s been here longer than most rookies. I reach into the glove box, grab my ID, and hand it over.
He scans it and gives me this amused little smirk.
“I've got to give it to you…” He passes the ID back. “That stunt with the plane yesterday? You've certainly got some balls. I’ll give you that.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything that won’t get quoted out of context later.
As I drive through the barrier, my jaw tightens.
Yeah, and let’s hope McCullum doesn’t decide to give them a good, hard kick when I get in his office.