All in on You

Chapter Eleven

I hate February.

It's the shortest month of the year, and that's probably its only saving grace. Toronto Februarys are cold and dark, and although the same could be said of the other winter months, February lacks the magic and cheer of December and the promise of new beginnings of January.

Today marks the first day of February, and it's a Wednesday. Hump day. The calendar has really outdone itself this year.

As I turn into the staff parking lot of the Maille Arena, I count my blessings. Working with the Saints has been going well—much better than expected. With each passing day I'm one step closer to completing my degree. Oh, and a few days ago, I had the best sex of my life.

Wait. Does oral sex count as sex? It doesn't matter. I'm counting it because it truly was the best, beating out any penetration I experienced with Stephen. Before my kitchen counter adventure with Angelo, Stephen had been the only person I slept with. Among many other things, being with Angelo made me realize just how bad my sex life has been.

But enough of that for now. It's too early to be thinking about sex, and I'm just about to start my workday.

I wish I could say that Angelo is on my mind because I'm at the arena and about to have a meeting with his team's general manager. But that would be a lie. It seems like Angelo is always on my mind. Where he's concerned, my thoughts are a jumbled mess. I like him. Clearly, I like him. That's not up for debate. But by fucking with him, I fucked up big time. Casual sex never used to be on my radar, and while I send all the power in the world to the women that find it enjoyable, it worries me that Angelo has made me act so out of character. Beyond that though, is the not-so-inconsequential fact that we literally broke the rules. Obviously, no one knows but us, but still. I've always been a rule follower and I have no idea what I was thinking breaking such a strict rule that concerns my career.

I wasn't thinking. That's the problem.

When Angelo Bradford is in my vicinity, I lose my damn mind.

I pull open the heavy front door of the Maille Arena and revel in the warmth that immediately surrounds me. Thank goodness this building isn't stingy when it comes to heating. Every time I step foot into the Saints' home arena, I'm mesmerized by how classy it is. My dad told me that they went through a major renovation a few years back, and I'd say it was definitely worth it. It's sleek, modern, and expensive, and shows exactly what this city thinks of their professional hockey team.

I smile politely at a few people I pass by on my way to the elevator, even though I don't know any of them. Once I've pressed the 'up' button, I mentally debate whether Faulkner's office is 506 or 507. Just when I'm about certain that it's actually 508, the doors slide open.

And I freeze.

Of freaking course.

Standing in the elevator, all six foot two of him, wearing sweats and a toque, is Angelo Bradford. And beside him, is Adam Faulkner.

Angelo looks just as stunned as I feel, but I pray to the heavens that Faulkner is oblivious.

"Harlow! I'm guessing you're coming up, to my office?" he says.

I recover quickly because I have no other choice.

"Yeah, for our meeting."

Angelo holds his hand over the doors and I step inside. I hope I'm not too obvious in the way that I take a few extra steps so that I'm on the other side of Adam, rather than being sandwiched between him and Angelo.

So, this is the part where I admit that I haven't been in contact with Angelo since he ate me out. We don't have each other's numbers, but that's hardly an obstacle. I could have asked Scar, and Angelo could have asked Keith to ask her to get mine. It's only been a few days, and although I can't be sure about Angelo's reason for the silence, I know that I'm still trying to process things.