Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(6)
Maybe this is a blessing in disguise so we can clear the air. “No problem.”
Once the roar of his truck’s engine confirms he’s gone, I head for Seraphina’s room. She’s perched on the edge of her bed looking down at her phone, her mouth pulled into a pout of concentration with her bottom lip poking out slightly.
Pausing in the doorway, I grant myself the briefest moment to observe her, still taken aback by how fucking pretty she is. I’ve never used that word to describe a girl before. Hot, sure. Cute, sometimes. But she’s more than either of those. She’s pretty in the way that catches your attention and refuses to let it go.
A thorn pricks at my conscience as an unfamiliar emotion overtakes me. I’m not certain whether it’s guilt over my attraction to someone I can’t have—or the fact I already did.
Get it together, Donohue.
I knock on the open door, and she glances up, giving me an apprehensive look that mirrors the way I feel. Neither of us wants to have this discussion. Might as well rip off the bandage now, though. God knows we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.
Keeping a safe distance while we’re alone seems like the best course of action, so I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Chase asked me to help you finish while he ran out for a sec, but I thought we should talk first.”
“Yeah, we should.” She grimaces, setting her cell on the nightstand. “This is awkward.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I deadpan.
Serious talks aren’t my strong suit. Blame my sarcastic default setting.
Irritation flickers across her face, and her gaze darts around the room as if surveying for onlookers, then lands back on me. “You didn’t think to lead with the fact that you play for the Falcons?”
Do I leverage my hockey career to get laid? Sometimes. It’s a great way to find like-minded chicks who aren’t looking for anything more than one night of meaningless fun. But for some reason, I hadn’t felt compelled to disclose that information to Seraphina the night we met. Maybe I was caught up in the thrill of an anonymous encounter. Or maybe—even though I’m loath to admit it—I wanted to be desired for who I was for a change, instead of what I do.
Vulnerability nags at the edges of my mind, and I shove down the last thought.
“You and I didn’t do much talking.” One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was giving her a hat trick on the edge of a sink. Not a lot of words were exchanged in the process.
An adorable flush creeps across her cheekbones, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. “Pretty sure neither of us would’ve done that if we’d known who the other person was. I don’t date hockey players.” She clears her throat and juts her chin, squaring her shoulders. “Or fool around with them. Athletes aren’t my type. Plus, Chase would flip out.”
That stings a little, but she’s right. I’d be six feet under within the hour.
“Let’s start over,” I offer. “Pretend it never happened. And I think we can both agree we don’t need to tell your brother.”
“Agreed on both points.” Seraphina’s posture softens and she offers me a smile, but it’s weak. She hesitates, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “We can still be friends, can’t we? I don’t know anyone at Boyd other than Chase and my friend Abby, and it’d be nice to have another person to hang out with once in a while. Unless you think that would be weird…”
If she were anyone else, I would shut down this suggestion immediately. Not only am I not in the habit of befriending former one-night stands, but the number of people I’m close to can be counted on hand—and I barely have enough time for them as it is.
Her warm brown eyes gleam with uncertainty as she looks at me, waiting for a response. She looks so hopeful; so vulnerable. I can’t bring myself to say no—even if saying yes feels like skating on dangerously thin ice.
Against my better judgment, I cave. “Sure, Tink.”
CHAPTER 4
DRY SPELL
TYLER
“Why so quiet, fucker?” Chase shoots me a questioning look as we step inside the glass double doors of Northview Arena’s main entrance.
It’s a fair question. I wasn’t exactly good company during the drive to practice. I simply stared out a window while a chorus of “you’re fucked” played through my brain on repeat to the melody of the national anthem.
“Thinking about practice,” I tell him instead. “Mark is breathing down my neck about my puck tracking and rebounds.” Just one reason of many I can’t afford any distractions—especially not in the form of a pink-haired girl I’ve thought about more than I care to admit.
My reticence wouldn’t be quite as obvious if Dallas wasn’t checked out. As alternate captain, he always grills us about our practice plan and game strategy on the way to the arena. If you looked up “Type A personality” in the dictionary, there’d be a headshot of Dallas Ward in his hockey gear. He’s been unusually preoccupied today, immersed in some kind of back-and-forth sexting marathon with his girlfriend, Siobhan.
“You sure that’s all?” Chase presses.
“Yeah.”
Not even a little. I’m still reeling from Seraphina’s identity revelation, unsure how to handle being “friends,” and stressed as fuck about the possibility of the truth getting out.