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Now’s the time I notice things like his crooked nose. I run my finger along it. “Why don’t you get this fixed?” Not like he can’t afford it.
“Because you’ll just break it again, Alderchuck, and the recovery’s a bitch to have done a few times a season.” I do not break his nose that often. “I’ll get it fixed once I’m done playing. If I still care. It hasn’t hindered me with the men.”
“If I’m not allowed to talk about my conquests then neither are you. Unless that rule has ended now that we’ve fucked?”
He scowls. “That rule never ends, especially now that we’ve fucked.”
“God, you’re weird. Fine.” I roll over, intent on getting up. All that tiredness finally sets in.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to the hotel. Hockey, remember?” His circuits must be fried. “Aww, did you want a widdle cuddle, baby?”
He glares. “No. I’m not done with you yet. Get the fuck back here.” He doesn’t wait for me to comply and pulls me snug to him. “Gonna fuck you so hard later, you’ll feel me every time you move on the ice.”
For more sex like that, I’m willing to lie here until we can both get it up again. Problem is I’m already drifting off …
Something is trying to fry my eyelids from my face. What the fuck is that? Oh, it’s the sun. Bright, just coming over the horizon sun, bleaching my damn eyes. Holy shit. Who left the curtain open? We have blackout curtains in our condo for a reason. But I’m not at home in our condo. I’m not anywhere near home.
I’m still at Sutter’s. Jesus Christ. I check my phone, it’s five am and there’s a lovely message from Coach, telling us to get our asses to the rink for a “practice”. I say “practice” because it’s really probably just him wanting to yell at us for what we did on the ice against Boston. That was overboard even for us. If I fucking run, I can make it back in time for Coach’s six am meeting. Then I’m sleeping for the rest of the morning.
A whole bunch of evil theories run through my head. At the top of that list is Sutter luring me in here, locking me in hiscondo, and making me miss the game. I check the time. Okay, it’s still early. I have time, but I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.
Sitting up, my bruised ass twinges. Shit. Flashes of the night return to me like I’m experiencing a bad hangover. I’m all chewed up from where fucking Sutter bit me. I have more bruises than I had when I got here, that’s for damn sure. He sucked places I didn’t know you could suck, leaving trails of deep dark hickeys. Fuck, I’ll be in a hoodie for a while.
I rub a hand over my face. Oh, God. Something comes back to me.
Me tracing my fingers over the bruise on his torso. Smiling about it. Murmuring things like,I did that.
Him nibbling down my wrist, under my armpit, and me squealing—yeah squealing—with laughter, before he kissed the place where he’d banged me up during a game.I did that,he said, echoing me.
Cute. That’s the only way to describe that sort of behavior. I don’t want to be cute with Sutter. It messes with my head. Sutter is nowhere to be found. Hopefully, he’s in the shower, drowning in it, or something. I scramble to find my clothes all the while flashes of the crude positions Sutter put me in so he could rail me until I forgot my name—which I did at one point—inspire me to move faster.
Normally, I’d be stoked about a round of morning sex after a night like that, sore ass or not, but all I can think about now is fleeing the scene of the crime.
I’m just sliding into my hoodie when Sutter strolls in, wearing nothing but a gray robe, and from the tenting in the front, he’s expecting a goodbye round. In his hand is a cup of coffee. When his gaze lands on me, he frowns.
“What happened, kitten?”
“You need to stop calling me that.”
“Not a morning person? Here, I brought you coffee.” He extends the mug; I hold up my hand.
“No thanks. I’ve got to get going.”
“I know when you have to leave, Casey. You have time for coffee.”
Casey?This has gone too far. I stand abruptly, he moves too quickly, and coffee sloshes onto his expensive bedsheets. I stride out of the room, leaving him frozen in place. The sweet scent of bacon hits my nostrils. He made breakfast. There are two plates of food on the small kitchen table near the window—there are too many damn windows in this place, exposing me—he was gearing up to have a normal meal with me.
My gut squeezes. I think I’m gonna be sick. It’s Sutter. My fucking rival, Sutter. I can’t do this with him.
Frantically, I look for wherever my socks and shoes got to when he took them off in here last night. I don’t see them, but there is a loud crash from the bedroom. Ceramic smashing against painted drywall. I cringe. Fuck my socks. My shoes are near the door. “Someone” arranged them neatly. Stuffing my bare feet inside, I run out the door.
So. Sutter might want to kill me. Sure, we are usually trying to kill each other, but we don’t mean it. I think. Tonight, Sutter is out for blood, and he gets it. At some points, I’m not sure he remembers he’s playing hockey. His kill switch is on and he’s intent on crushing me into the ice.
I didn’t tell the guys who I was with all night. I made it out like it was a random Benduovr hookup. Something that used to be more common before Jack began shacking up with Coach.
Man, this game is seriously fucked. Not that I’m giving up, oh no, no. I’m just losing the will not to break his nose again.
