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I run a hand down my face and push away from the door. The towel drops to the floor as I pull on a pair of boxer briefs and sweat bottoms. I’d normally leave it at that, but with Mads here, I opt to throw a T-shirt on as well. No need to test things. Especially on her first night here.
I leave my bedroom and sit on the couch as Mads is transporting the things she doesn’t need into the storage space. I flip the television on and find the game, settling in to watch.
“You need any help?” I ask when she walks back through the sliding glass doors.
“Nope, I’m good.” She glances at the screen. “Are they down a game?”
Madison’s a fan of the Bruins too. The thing I’ve always liked about Mads is for as girlie as she can be in some ways, she genuinely loves watching sports. I’ve known plenty of females who pretend to like it to have something in common with the guys. But not her. She watches because she enjoys it. And she knows a thing or two about the sport as well. She’s like one of the guys in that way.
“They tied it up two nights ago,” I answer.
The hockey league is in postseason games. The teams are in search of that elusive Cup. It’s tournament play, meaning it’s the best-of-seven series to progress to the next level. In other words, my favorite time of year.
Mads makes a couple of more trips and then closes and locks the sliding glass doors. When I glance at the pile of clothing still lying in the corner, something catches my eye.
“Well, that looks familiar,” I drawl.
She heads into the kitchen. “What does?” She shuffles through the counters until she finds the glasses. She removes one and fills it with water, pausing to take a long pull.
“The shirt sitting on top of your pile of clothes. It looks suspiciously like the same hockey shirt I loaned you years ago. You know … the one you never returned.”
The couch sinks when she plops down beside me.
“You’re not getting it back now either,” she announces unapologetically. “I’ve washed and worn it so many times that it’s perfectly broken in now.”
“I’ve never seen you wear it.”
She glances over at me with the edge of her lower lip resting on the rim of the glass. “That’s because I only wear it to bed.”
Well, hell, now, I’m picturing her in bed at night, wearing nothing but my old T-shirt.
She places her cup on the coffee table and perches her bare feet along the edge. Her toenails are neat and trimmed and painted a bright red color. I try not to notice the way her legs go on forever, but my eyes have a mind of their own. Her skin is tan and smooth. Her calf muscles are shapely, and her quads are toned. She’s wearing yellow cotton shorts, which slip even further up her thighs when she shifts, and a tank top. I guess she changed into that pathetic excuse for loungewear while I was showering. I’m not complaining, yet it doesn’t help my resolve to keep this little sleepover strictly platonic.
“Is McNamara still hurt?”
My eyes shift to hers, finding them waiting for me as she speaks.
She smirks and tilts her head playfully, the player’s current medical status forgotten. “Ollie Burnham … were you just checking me out?”
I scoff and turn all my attention to the television. “What do you expect when you wear tiny shorts that barely cover your ass? You might as well be walking around in your underwear.”
I sense her triumphant smile, but I refuse to glance in her direction again.
“Oh, Ollie. That’s where you’re wrong. My panties are so much smaller than these tiny shorts. That is, if I bother to wear any …”
I groan, and she laughs.
“Watch the game, Mads.”
The sexual tension between us slowly dissipates as we focus on hockey. Toward the end of the first period, Mads leaves the apartment to go outside and call her mom. I can tell she’s dreading the conversation. I go in search for her when she doesn’t return after fifteen minutes. I find her sitting on the top stairs, glancing absently out into the darkness. Her phone is braced in one of her hands, dangling by her side.
I settle beside her and lean my shoulder against the railing. “How’d it go?”
Her eyes still have that faraway look when she shrugs. “She’s not happy.”
“Is she going to force you to come home?”
Mads huffs defiantly. “She can try. Doesn’t mean I’ll listen.” A few beats of silence elapse before she speaks again. “I’m eighteen years old, Ollie. Celeste can’t start parenting me now. That ship has sailed.”
