After a career-ending fight, ex-professional-hockey-player-turned-Zamboni-driver Chase Cassidy has never looked back at the sport. He's perfectly content cleaning the ice between periods and chatting with fellow staff members, and running a pub outs...
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Chase
It's well past midnight by the time I'm stumbling into the spare room. After getting involved in a heated cribbage tournament with the West family, then sitting by the fire and drinking tea, I'm exhausted. To where I strip out of my clothing and let it pool on the floor. Then I climb under the sheets in nothing but my boxers.
Fuck brushing my teeth or washing my face. All I want to do is sleep. Spending time with the West family is always fun, but damn, do they like to talk. Especially Tobias and Miranda when they're drunk.
As soon as my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes, ready to welcome sleep. But just as I get comfortable, there's a knock on the door. Shifting to my elbows, I reach over and flick on the lamp. Clear my throat. "Come in!"
Although I should be answering the door, I don't think it's a good idea to answer the door while wearing nothing but my boxers. What if it's Miranda or Tobias? That would be awkward.
The door creaks open, and I squint against the thin sliver of light streaming through. It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust. In the doorway stands Spencer. She's carrying a water bottle, but hasn't looked up because she's trying to turn off the flashlight setting on her phone.
"Thought you might need this," she says. Finally, the light goes out, and only soft light from the hallway trickles into the bedroom. "We're..." When she looks up, the next sentence gets caught in her throat. She bites her bottom lip, her eyes following the contour of my arms, then my collarbone, then...
A cool breeze creeps across my lower abdomen.
Shit.
My face becomes heated, and I cast my gaze downward to where the blanket has fallen to my waist. Shit. She must think I'm naked underneath. I don't think she can see the waistband of my boxers.
"I'm not naked," I blurt.
The mortification pumping through my blood intensifies.
God, why do I blurt random things?
Spencer doesn't say another word. All she does is stare at me, creeping closer to the bed with her arm extended. When she's close enough, she stops. I reach out and take the water bottle, popping the lid off to take a sip. Some of the water dribbles down my chin and onto my chest.
And she watches the whole time.
"Thanks," I say. "Yeah, uh, I really needed that. Y'know, after all those potato chips."
Mentally, I want to burrow beneath the covers and never show my face again. How the fuck am I supposed to rebound after this one? Especially when I'm just as guilty?
All I can do is stare at Spencer in her lacy flannel shorts and the way her pert nipples peek through the worn, oversized black T-shirt she's wearing. Her face is void of any makeup and her cheeks are flushed, hairline damp. She must've just washed her face. I wonder if she's brushed her teeth. What her toothpaste tastes like. What would happen if I dragged her into this bed and kissed her again.
