Chapter 10
TEN
Lake
I’m a dumbass.
Pushing for details I don’t want.
I recline back against my headboard, phone in my lap, the tape I need to review already in my team inbox.
Most of it is from the last road trip—a mix of plays from my line, plenty of fuckups I made, a few—and only a few—things that went right (because Coach doesn’t much believe in positive reinforcement).
My memory is such that I remember every fuckup with crystal clear accuracy.
They’re on replay in my head, the good stuff barely a blip in my thoughts—there and gone in a flash because I can’t get better by focusing on all the things I do right.
I can only get better by fixing the bad shit.
I review some contract offers—sponsorships, promotional events for the vodka company I’m the face of, check the dates of a photoshoot for the underwear brand I work with (and that Steve likes to destroy), and then I look through the workout plan that’s been sent over for me—made in collaboration with the team’s PT staff and my trainer, Ivy.
She’s a tiny redheaded dynamo who busts balls and has no problem standing up to grumpy hockey players and kicking our asses in the weight room.
Since I won’t have access to my normal gym if we’re all snowed in, she’s made some changes and modifications to my typical workout so I can exercise here at the house, with the limited equipment I have on hand, for the next couple of days.
And it better only be a couple of days, I think, sniffing the air and catching the faint scent of something cooking—
Or maybe something burning.
“Christ,” I mutter, clicking the button to lock my phone and tossing it onto the nightstand. It lands with a clatter as I push out of bed, feet hitting the floor and—
I curse, sidestep immediately and glare down at the piece of my wet, chewed-up underwear.
“Fucking demon,” I grumble, bending and snatching it up, marching to the bathroom and shoving it in the trash can. Then I’m out in the hall, the scent of burning getting stronger and—
I come to a halt at the mouth of the hall.
What. The. Fuck?
I’d left the kitchen organized. Clean. And now…
It’s a fucking war zone.
I move toward the chaos, drawn like a rubbernecker at the scene of an accident.
A pan is smoking on the stove—on my new fucking stove I haven’t even had the chance to use yet. Plates are stacked in the sink. Boxes are open and shoved haphazardly in different places in the kitchen—seemingly half of what I just stocked into the pantry…and some shit I haven’t.
Hers?
I shake my head, take in the remainder of the chaos—this being caused by a small woman and a tiny demon dog.
“Just. Give it. Back,” she mutters from her hands and knees, shapely ass in the air, arm extended toward—
I frown.
My cabinets.
She flops to her side, feet curling as they press into the floor, body contorting. I can’t see her top half because it’s crammed into the corner cabinet, but I can see enough.
Ass. A strip of skin revealed by her shirt sliding up, showing off a sliver of soft, feminine curves.
But her voice—or maybe I should say, her groans and grunts—as she somehow shoves even more of herself into that cabinet is what has me stopping and staring.
My dick twitching.
“Steve!” she hisses and I blink, ignoring my cock because clearly, I haven’t had enough quality time with it of late, and reconsider that face-down-ass-up position from a different perspective.
The demon dog.
Christ.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap.
Her body jerks and—
Thunk.
A blip of something—not my cock this time—slides through me, but I push that away as I move over to her, shoving my hand into the cabinet, positioning it between her head and the underside of the counter so she won’t bump it a second time.
Then I wrap my other arm around her, slide her out of the cabinet and take her spot.
Demon dog has something in his mouth again.
I sigh, maneuver out, flick off the knob of the stove, turning off the burner. Whatever has turned to a black tar-like substance in the bottom of the pan smells like ass, so I take it to the sink, load it up with soap and water.
Then I spin back to face Nova, who’s rubbing the back of her head.
She catches me looking and winces.
“What’s the demon dog have?”
A scowl. “Nothing.”
Swear to fuck, this woman is contrary just to be contrary.
I lift an eyebrow. “That’s why you were trying to play Oscar the Grouch?”
Her nose wrinkles. “He lives in a trash can.”
“He’s a puppet,” I say. “And you’re a liar. Is the pervert trying to eat another pair of underwear?”
“No,” she snaps. “Steve’s not used to his surroundings, you know. And he had a scare earlier and he’s—”
“An asshole,” I finish for her, reaching in, and, using my longer arms to my advantage, I pluck him out of the cabinet, figuring rightly that with his mouth occupied, he won’t be able to sink his tiny fangs into me.
He snuffs and snorts, but he doesn’t bite me as I plunk him into Nova’s lap and shut the cabinet door.
“What does he have this time?” I ask, leaning back against the counter as she wrestles it out of his mouth.
Her eyes come to mine then dart away, but she doesn’t answer as she keeps struggling with the dog, trying to simultaneously open his mouth and reach in to retrieve—
He coughs and—
Splat.
Something bright blue and black ends up in a puddle of whatever fucking disgusting liquid the dog spits up. Nova reaches into it like it’s no big deal, extracting what had been in the demon’s mouth and lifting it, slimy strings still attached.
I gag.
She looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Tell me you’re a prima donna without telling me you’re a prima donna.
” She carries the object over to the sink, turning on the water and spending enough time cleaning it off that I know it has nothing to do with her being a prima donna and everything to do with her dog being disgusting.
Case in point?
The tiny demon licking up his own…fluids.
I gag again but reach for the roll of paper towels on the counter, showing how much of a non-prima donna I am by clearing up the mess in the face of the growling, snotting beast.
At least he doesn’t try to bite me.
I dump the dirty paper towels into the trash, ignoring the sight of a blood-stained one that tells me she tended to her wounds while I lounged in bed watching hockey videos.
The dog glares at me.
I glare right back.
Until I realize that the water is still running, and Nova’s shoulders are slumped.
Even Steve realizes that something is up, whining softly and moving to the sink, leaning against her leg with a soft huff.
Tiny demon with a soft spot for its owner.
The contact startles her and I watch as she wipes the blue and black object on her pant leg then shoves it into her hoodie pocket. A second later, she’s pushing her sleeves up and going to town on the pan.
“I was trying to cook you dinner,” she says. “And Steve was being…” A sigh. “Steve.”
“I don’t need you to cook for me.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. “I’m sure you’re fully capable,” she says. “But I had food in my bag that needs to be used today and you’re letting me stay and”—a quiet sigh—“you rescued me from the side of the road.”
“So…what?” I ask dryly. “You’re repaying my hospitality with a meal?”
Her brows dragged together. “Why do you sound like that?”
I scowl. “Like what?”
“Like the thought of that makes you want to suck lemons.”