Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“I … uh …” What am I supposed to say to that?
“But I also know you have some sort of truce or whatever. He’s in room nineteen oh three if you want him.”
I do want him, but probably not in the way he means, and my confusion must show.
“If you want to see him,” Tommy clarifies.
“Right … uh … okay, thanks.” I nervously push my glasses back up my nose. “It was nothing. I was going to give my commiserations on the loss.”
“He might want to hear that from you. Definitely wasn’t interested in hearing it from me.” His smugness isn’t lost on me.
“Well, with you grinning like that, I can’t really blame him.”
“Have you guys been spending more time together than he let on? You sound just like him.” With a laugh, he wanders into the bar, no doubt planning to give Ollie’s teammates hell.
I stand still, debating whether or not to go up to Ollie’s room. It’s to give sympathy, nothing important, and if he has a roommate, it could get awkward.
Ollie doesn’t seem like the type of closet case to pretend he doesn’t know any queer guys, but that might be different if one turns up outside his hotel room.
The smart thing would be to leave—go back to my own hotel a block away. But even though I tested at a higher than average intelligence as a child, I never said I did smart things.
I take the elevators up to the nineteenth floor and hesitate again outside his room. Straining to listen, I put one ear against the door to try to hear how many voices are in there, but I can’t hear anything. Either he’s alone or the walls are too thick. Or he and his roommate are asleep. Although, I doubt that.
Before I get the chance to pull away, Ollie opens the door without warning, and I fall into his impressively large chest. He’s already out of his suit and only wearing sweats and a tight T-shirt, and I can feel every hard muscle against my face.
“There’s an interesting way to greet me.”
I pull back, but my gaze gets stuck on something. Is that … I narrow my eyes and assess the small bump underneath his shirt. A pierced nipple?
Ollie clears his throat.
My gaze flicks up to his. “Sorry. I … I—” I cannot find words.
“You …”
“I came to say sorry about the loss.”
Ollie cocks his head. “Was it your fault we sucked out there? Or did you write another article about me and you’ve come to give me a heads-up?”
“No, you jackass. I didn’t write another article. I’m being a friend here, because according to Jet, I have no idea how to be one, and friends commiserate or congratulate their friends when they win or lose a game.”
He folds his arms across his chest that’s stupid and hard. “And you couldn’t have sent a text?”
“Still don’t have your number.”
“Jet does.”
“I’m not Jet’s keeper.”
Instead of slinging more quips, Ollie smiles and steps back. “Coming in?”
“Were you on your way out? It’s cool if you were.” Despite my words, I enter the hotel room.
“Petrov left his hotel keycard next to his bed. He just left for the night, and I was gonna try to catch him because I didn’t want to be woken at fuck you o’clock to let his drunk ass in here, but he’ll be long gone by now thanks to this little detour.” He waves a hand between us.
“Not my fault. You could’ve left me standing out here like a moron.”
“Could have if you weren’t pressed against me.”
Is that … flirting?
“Touché. Why aren’t you down at the bar with the rest of the guys, drowning your sorrows in alcohol?”
“I’d prefer not to be hungover for tomorrow. Coach is gonna ride our asses.”
“Sounds fun. Your coach is hot for an older guy.”
Ollie snorts. “Well, there’s that, but also I think we can both agree me and alcohol should never mix.”
“I dunno. I kind of like it when you’re drunk.”
Fuck, am I flirting back?
Rules. Boundaries. Remember them.
“Because, you know … you’re nicer to me when you are.”
Ollie takes the bait. “Your know-it-all, mouthy attitude isn’t as annoying when I have no inhibitions.”
“Hey, you never complained about my mouth the last time we were in Boston.”
Oh God, why did I bring that up?
Ollie laughs, deep and rich. “True.”
An iPad catches my eye on his bed, and I can’t see what hockey game’s playing on the screen, but I’d bet my left nut he’s watching tonight’s.
“Why are you torturing yourself?” I point at the bed.
“It’s not torturing. It’s working. My job doesn’t end just because we’re off the ice.”
“Then why are your teammates down at the bar and you’re not?”
Ollie runs a hand through his ashy hair. “Because they don’t have as much to prove as I do?”