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He leaves the door open, flips the toilet seat up, and relieves himself.
I steal a quick glance. The mirror across from the toilet is visible from this vantage point. It gives me a perfect view of his sleep-messed hair, broad, thickly muscled back, and sculpted ass.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer!” he calls over his pee stream.
“Why? There’s nothing worth remembering anyway,” I reply.
His pee stream stops abruptly, and he appears in the bathroom doorway as he tucks himself back into his black boxer briefs. His jaw tics. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite figure out. Like I’ve hurt him somehow. But that’s what we do—fire arrows and see who can hurt the other one the most. He’s usually the winner, even if he doesn’t know it. He pours a whole vat of salt in the wound with his next shot. “You realize you’re not wanted here, right? Flip feels bad because your roommates were assholes. He’ll let you stay because he doesn’t want to deal with his guilty conscience. And neither do I. Especially not at the beginning of the season. But you’re a problem, and I don’t want you getting in the way, Beat.”
I can’t help it. I flinch at his words. He used to say something similar when we were teens, telling me I was annoying to have around. “I don’t want to deal with you any more than you want to deal with me.” Douchebag. Fuckboy. Arrogant asshole. I’m not the same little girl who wanted his affection. Now I wish he’d choke on his own dick half the time—the other half I wish I was choking on his dick.
“Everything you do drives me up the wall. Why is the counter covered in bottles?” He motions to the vanity.
I tried to keep all my stuff on Flip’s side, but a few things have been moved since last night. “The medicine cabinet is full.” Mostly of various types of condoms, plus menthol rub and a few over-the-counter painkillers.
He stalks over to the shower and pulls the curtain aside. “And how many products do you need to shower? It’s like a fucking drive-thru car wash in here!”
I only have the basics: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, a pouf, and sugar scrub. And they’re all contained in a small plastic bin, unlike the leaking three-in-one wash my brother favors and Tristan’s expensive shampoo and body wash.
“What crawled up your ass this morning?”
“You! Your shit is everywhere!”
Hating him is so easy sometimes. Maybe the stunt I pulled yesterday is having the same frustrating effect on him as it is on me. As soon as I think that, I brush it off as ridiculous. The knee between my thighs was reflexive. He can’t stand me. His overt disdain makes that clear.
A knock at the door prevents me from responding. Then the condo door opens. A woman in her mid-twenties, dressed for business, pokes her head in. “Hello? Hemi incoming!”
Her long, dark hair is styled like she’s been at the salon. High-waisted pants and a blue chiffon cap-sleeved blouse accentuate her curves. She’s carrying a messenger bag, and she doesn’t seem like one of my brother’s hookups. But she looks familiar. She sets a tray of coffees on the side table.
“Hey, Hemi.” Tristan pulls the bathroom door closed.
I glance between them, a weird, unpleasant feeling twisting my stomach uncomfortably. It’s clear Tristan and Hemi know each other. I just don’t know how. Maybe I’m wrong about the whole girlfriend thing. But he came home the other day covered in glitter and cheap perfume. I recognize the smell of Chanel No. 5 on Hemi.
She purses her lips and props her fists on her hips. “For the love of God, I said I’d be here at ten. This isn’t your locker room. Put on some goddamn clothes.”
She’s definitely not his girlfriend. The instant relief I feel is ridiculous.
“Blame it on Flip. He was the one making a racket until two in the morning. I just got up.” Tristan heads for his bedroom. Maybe that’s why he’s so aggravated this morning. Maybe I was an unfortunate target for his wrath.
“Where is Phillip?” Hemi asks.
“Still in bed.” Tristan’s bedroom door closes.
Hemi, who hasn’t noticed me, huffs, and her heels click across the hardwood floor. She pounds three times on Flip’s door. “You better be out here in less than ten minutes, Phillip, or I will sign you up for a herpes endorsement!” she shouts.
And then I understand why she looks familiar. She’s head of the team’s PR. Her job is to manage unruly hockey players and their bad behavior. Making them participate in charity events smooths out rough edges in the public eye. She also helps players secure endorsements, which earn income on top of their already amazing salaries. It’s a cool job. And she seems like a badass.
