Page 22 of Body Check

ten

. . .

Jason

There’s a woman in the bed beside me.

What the fuck did I do?

My head pounds and my mouth is drier than the Sahara, but all I can think about is the soft, warm body spooning me from behind. I never get to be the little spoon; I’m always the big spoon, whether I like it or not.

There’s an arm slung around my waist, the fingernails painted a soft pink color. Who do I know that wears pink nail polish?

My head throbs and my bladder protests, so I ease out of the bed and lumber to the bathroom to take care of business. Washing my hands, I splash some cold water on my face, taking in the cosmetics bag on the bathroom counter and the bra hanging on the hook behind the door. It’s pink and lacy. I’m definitely not in my room.

There’s no sign of a condom wrapper in the trash. Fuck. I hope we were safe. Although I’m still wearing my jeans, there’s no dried cum in my pubes, and given the extent of my hangover, I highly doubt I cleaned myself up properly afterward, so…

Maybe we didn’t have sex?

Lurching back to the main room, I spot the pills on the bedside table and swallow them, chasing them down with a gulp of water. My eyes are dry from having slept in my contacts, but as my bed partner turns and her hair falls to the side, there’s no denying what I’m seeing.

I slept with Amelia Owen.

I’m in Amelia Owen’s hotel room.

She’s wearing a pair of soft-looking flannel pajamas, the red and black buffalo check in stark relief against the crisp, white sheets. Her dark hair is in a pink silk scrunchie, exposing her face and the long column of her neck. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

This is bad. Very, very bad.

She shifts in the bed, making a soft noise deep in her throat. Her face scrunches, as if something is wrong, and I have the inexplicable urge to rub away the crease between her brows. What can possibly be bothering her?

I need to get out of here—and fast.

My shoes are placed at the side of the desk. Stumbling, I manage to get them on, and then slide my wallet and phone into my pockets. The hotel room key is in the back of the case, right where I left it.

Making a swift escape, I take the stairs down one floor to my room. There’s a housekeeper in uniform pushing a laundry cart, and she nods at me when I pass by.

Inside the room, I chug another bottle of water. It’s early—we don’t have to leave for morning skate for another two hours—but I’m wide awake, so I throw myself into the shower, shave, and dress in casual clothes. My headache has mostly receded by the time I make it downstairs.

The team rents out a meeting room for meals and activities, and I arrive as the catering dishes are being set out. I grab a plate and fill it up, my stomach simultaneously growling and protesting the sight of food.

Coach Turner is nursing his coffee, eggs and bacon on a plate beside a grapefruit.

“Morning, Coach,” I greet. We’re the only two in the room. It would be awkward to ignore him.

“Morning,” he grunts. He eyes me curiously, no doubt clocking the bags under my eyes. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He hums under his breath, stabbing at the grapefruit. “Let Doc know if you need to take something.”

“I’m fine for tonight. I’ll take a pre-game nap and make up for it.”

I’m sure I’ll sleep better without Amelia sharing the bed with me.

Fuck. How the hell did I end up in her bed?

The last thing I remember is drinking at the bar. She was at a table with some of the other staffers—including Andrews. Fucking Andrews. Is she fucking Andrews?