Page 16 of Omega’s Forward

I feel my stomach flip which is stupid. I’ve faced harder opponents on the ice. I’ve had my nose broken twice. I’ve gone into more than one game knowing that there’s a guy on the other side so eager to pummel me that he wouldn’t care if he killed me.

Somehow this is more nerve-wracking.

I grit my teeth. I don’t care what that little priss thinks of me. At least that’s what I tell myself as I watch him press the button. His car noses in, following the pathway toward the garage door which I have left open.

I watch him on the security camera as he gets out of the car. He’s wearing a dark suit, no tie, top button open.

He is the most beautiful thing that has ever stood in my garage, and it is a genuine pity about the personality.

He grabs a briefcase from the passenger seat, then looks around for the exit, making his way through the connecting door to my kitchen moments later.

I turn the security feed off before he comes in.

His scent hits me immediately and I feel myself harden in my pants. I want to grab him, bend him over the kitchen counter and—

“Thank you for hosting, Mr. Callahan.” He says it to a point just over my shoulder, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Of course.”

A silence. Tremendous start.

He has closed the garage door behind him and I have made the mistake of not opening the windows in the kitchen. His scent has nowhere to go. Orange peel. Dark honey. It climbs into me on every breath. I want to bite him, swallow him alive.

I’m not going to do that.

“How about I give you the tour?”

He’s standing deadly still, his nostrils flared. My scent is affecting him as badly as his is affecting me. Good.

“Just show me where my room is.”

No please. No thank you.

“Sure.”

I point out the rooms as we walk, giving him the tour anyway.

“Kitchen, obviously. Living room. Gym’s in the basement, use whatever. Laundry. My room’s at that end.”

He follows behind me saying nothing.

I stop at the far door. “You’re down here.”

I spent an hour on this room. New sheets, washed in the unscented stuff. Cleared the closet, found the good hangers. It has its own bathroom, blackout blinds, and the entire width of the house between his door and mine. He looks at the room, then down the hallway at the distance.

“Thank you,” he says, and sets his laptop bag on the desk like he’s checking into a conference.

“Here’s my week,” I say, because somebody has to say something. “Morning skate at nine, home by two most days. Games Tuesday, Friday, Sunday. All home. We’re on a homestand, which is the only luck anybody’s had in this whole thing. Media availability Thursday, at the rink, nowhere near here. Sun comes Wednesday afternoon. There’s a list on the fridge with the gate code, the Wi-Fi, the security company’s number, and garbage day.”

“Garbage day,” he repeats, faintly.

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean I’ll take it out, same as I always do, but just so you know.”

“Sure,” he says, looking around at the room. His face is so carefully blank that I have no idea what he is thinking.

“If you need anything—”

“I won’t.”