30. Scottie
Scottie
“You are an animal, Finnian O’Connell.”
I just left a piece of my dignity on a fifty-year-old oak table.
My lower lip is still throbbing, swollen and hot where I bit down to keep from getting us banned from the library.
Cash just stands there by the driver’s side door, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his gray shorts.
He is grinning like an absolute lunatic.
The dark gold-flecked circles of his eyes are bright, satisfied with himself, his mouth split into a wide, cocky smirk that makes me want to drop kick him.
“The rules were explicit, Scottie-girl,” he rumbles. “Absolute silence. First one to make a sound loses. You made a sound.”
“I made a sound because you were putting your hands on me under a public desk!” I jab a finger into the center of his chest. “That woman looked like she benched cars for a hobby, Cash. If she had come around that corner and seen your goalie fingers under my skirt, I would have… I don’t know.. died.”
“But did you get the room booked?” he asks, his grin widening until the small, familiar crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.
“Yes, I booked the room,” I snap.
I try to hold the glare, but the ridiculous picture of him standing there with a triumphant smile cracks my defense.
A tiny, involuntary laugh slips out of my throat. “You are horrible.”
“I’m the best client you’ve got,” he says, his hand coming out of his pocket to catch my wrist, his thumb pressing firm against my tattoo for one quick, hot second before he opens the passenger door for me. “Get in. Let’s see this room you found.”
The drive to the hotel takes forty-five minutes and by the time I guide us through the entrance of the hotel, the sun is dropping low, casting long streaks of red across the pine trees.
It actually is a nice place—hardwood floors, a stone fireplace in the lobby, and an outdoor hot tub that smells faintly of cedar wood and chlorine.
We get to the room on the third floor. The door clicks open to reveal a massive king bed with crisp white linens and a small balcony overlooking the valley.
I look at the single expanse of white sheets, and my brain does a small, belated calculation.
In the absolute blur of adrenaline, shaky knees, and sheer distraction under that library desk, my standard booking protocol had completely gone out the window.
I’d only clicked for one room. One bed.
“We can fix it,” he says quietly. “I’ll call down for a cot. Or I’ll take the floor.”
I blink at him. “The floor?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most natural, obvious thing in the world, unbothered by his own comfort. “I’d rather have a sore back than have you staring at the ceiling all night.”
The offer hangs in the air, so immediate and entirely without demand, and suddenly it hits me.
I hadn’t even thought about it.
The last time we’d ended up with one bed, my body had stayed locked in a panic, every muscle braced for danger. But this time? My mind hadn’t even flickered toward fear.
The old, stubborn survival instincts hadn’t even bothered to wake up, because somewhere along the way, my body had already decided he was home.
“No,” I say. “I’m okay.”
He studies my face for a quiet beat, like he’s making absolutely certain I mean it. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Something in his shoulders eases. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Okay.”
He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t make me prove it. He just believes me.
Then he continues. “I’m hitting the shower first. My skin feels like it’s fifty percent road dust and fifty percent library dust.”
“Not so fast, O’Connell,” I say, stepping into his path before he can reach the bathroom door.
Cash blinks, his hand hovering over the door handle. “What are you doing, Scottie?”
I take one slow step closer and reach out, my fingers light as feathers as I trace the hard, defined line of his collarbone, moving down the center of his chest until my palm rests right over his heart.
“You think you’re very clever…”
I lean in until my breath brushes the sensitive skin right beneath his jaw, my other hand sliding down to the waistband of his shorts.
Slowly, I hook my fingers into the elastic and slip my hand straight inside.
Cash lets out a sharp gasp, his entire body locking up like a statue.
My palm slides over the smooth, burning heat of his hip, my fingers tracing lower, skimming the dense muscle of his thigh before my knuckles lightly brush against his rigid cock stretching against the fabric.
He is already ruined for me, hard and pounding, and a wicked, triumphant thrill flares in my chest.
“Scottie, fuck,” he rasps, his head snapping back against the bathroom door.
His hand flies down, his fingers clamping around my wrist with a desperate, heavy grip, pinning my hand still against his skin before I can move another inch.
His chest is heaving, his dark eyes absolutely blazing down at me. “Stop. I am warning you. Pull your hand out right now or I am throwing you onto that bed and missing this entire skate.”
“Oh? Is the big league goalie losing his focus already?” I mock, tilting my head back to look him dead in the eyes.
I don’t pull away. Instead, I flex my fingers against him, laughing when a low, tortured groan rips from his throat.
“Where’s all that elite athletic discipline, O’Connell? One little touch and your whole focus crumbles?”
“You’re being a brat. You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
“I’m managing my client,” I whisper, leaning up on my tiptoes until my lips are almost touching his. I let my breath warm his mouth, teasing him with the proximity before I twist my wrist out of his grip and slide my hand out of his shorts.
I pat his chest twice, right over his racing heart. “And right now, your schedule says you have a meeting with an ice sheet. You don’t get the trophy just because you played a good first period, Finnian. Now go take that shower. You smell like shit.”
He stands there, rooted to the floorboards, his fists clenched at his sides as he glares at me with hungry frustration.
He points an index finger right at my face, his breath coming in gasps. “You’re a cruel woman, Scottie Reed. A deeply, brutally cruel woman. I’m going to make you pay for this later. Every single second of it.”
He slams the bathroom door behind him, and three seconds later, the sound of rushing water fills the room.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, my own legs shaking slightly from the adrenaline, a victorious smirk fixed firmly on my face.
***
Hours later, the gravel of the hotel parking lot crunches under our sneakers as we climb out of the van, the cold air hitting my skin.
Cash doesn’t say a word. He just reaches across the van, grabs his duffel bag by the strap, and slams the passenger door shut with a thud.
I walk ahead of him up the wooden steps, my fingers fumbling with the room key card before I swipe it against the lock.
Beep.
The green light flashes. I push the door open, step inside into the warmth of the room, and flip the light switch.
Cash follows me in, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot.
The deadbolt turns with a snap, sealing out the rest of the world and leaving us suspended in the tight, electric space between the entryway and the bed.
Cash sets his duffel bag down by the dresser with a soft thud, then turns around to face me.
By the time he skated off the ice tonight, his jersey was soaked through with sweat and melted ice shavings, his breathing a ragged, deep rattle inside his chest protector.
He hadn’t looked at me when he walked past the bench. He hadn’t joked.
The hockey brain had taken over entirely, leaving him quiet and distant, carrying that heavy, laser-focused intensity right into the van.
The drive back to the hotel was spent in complete silence.
I didn’t say a word, because I know better than to interrupt a goalie when he’s processing a skate. I just watched the trees slide past the glass, my pulse jumping every time he shifted gears, feeling the invisible thread between us pull tauter with every mile.
And now we’re here.
He steps forward, closing the distance between us with slow strides until my back hits the wood of the hotel door. He doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, looking down into my face with an intensity that makes my breath instantly stall in my throat.
“Well?” he asks. “Was it good enough?”
“Was what good enough?” I ask, tilting my chin up, refusing to let him see how fast my heart is hammering against my ribs.
“The skate,” he says. “The lanes. The recovery. Did I play the practice the way you wanted it, Scottie?”
“You were perfect,” I whisper, the defense melting right out of my voice.
Cash stares at me for a long, silent second. The hard, distant edge of the hockey player dissolves, replaced by something hungry, and entirely devoted.
Instead of stepping back, he reaches out, his hands sliding up my waist. He rests his palms flat against my hips, his thumbs tracing the line of my belt loops as he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him breathing
“Can I have my trophy now, Scottie?” he murmurs, a quiet plea hiding underneath the cocky edge. “I’ve been a very good client. I haven’t even complained about the video review once. I have been very good.”
I look up at him, a wicked little smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I reach up, my fingers tangling firmly into the damp spikes of his dark hair, and pull his head backward just enough to make him strain to keep eye contact.
“You think because you survived some drills you just get your trophy, O’Connell?” I tease, my voice light and dripping with amusement. “Please. Look at you. You’re so obsessed.”
“Yes, Scottie, I am obsessed.” He smiles. “You should know that by now. I am obsessed with you. Every second of every day. Now hand over the trophy.”
“Well, you have to earn it first, goalie,” I mock.