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Leave now.
Leave.
Even as I think it, my legs move toward the door, because my custard brain woke up broken and is functioning on zero common sense. But the conviction I felt about telling him was overwhelming. So I acted on it. And I’m apparently still acting on it, because now the door is right here and I’m knocking.
I’m actually knocking!
This is insane.
Leave!
Run away before someone answers.
The door pops open, and Asher Bensen is standing right there with his neatly styled hair and curious, bright gaze. He’s also a winger and is about as fast as Casey on the ice. Whenever they’re playing the same line, they’re lethal. Watching them is a beautiful thing. Although I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to attend another game after this.
He eyes me up and down with a smile while I grip the strap of my bag and try not to pass out.
“Hi.” His voice comes out all smooth and charming.
Seriously. I should not be here.
But it’s too late now. I can’t just spin and run down the street like a crazy woman.
Why not? You ARE a crazy woman!
Swallowing down the impulse to hurl, I clear my throat and say, “H-Hey. I’m looking for Casey. Casey Pierce. He lives here, right?”
“Yeah.”
He flicks his hand at me, and I follow him inside. The entryway is crowded with shoes of various sizes—large sneakers and boots piled on top of each other with a small pair of Converse among the mix. They have a girl here.
My chest spasms, then tightens into a tight knot, making it hard to breathe.
I shuffle past the coatrack bulging with winter jackets and quickly shed mine, hanging it over the edge of the stair railing so I can snatch it when it’s time to go. Adjusting my checkered shirt—which is probably the wrong choice, because my boobs feel huge today and they’re stretching the fabric—I stand just behind Asher in the archway. Tugging at the buttons, I try to rearrange before a wardrobe malfunction happens while also checking out the inner workings of Hockey House.
I have a microsecond of fangirling mania—I’m standing in Hockey House!—before shaking my head and willing myself to get a grip.
Asher steps aside once we’ve walked through the archway, and I can see the open living area with a well-loved couch facing a big-screen TV and a kitchen tucked off to the right. There’s more to take in—a glimpse of a dining table with people sitting at it and a room beyond that, which looks as though it has a pool table in it—cool!—but my brain doesn’t actually soak any of it in, because…
There he is.
Shirtless.
Just my luck. He still looks fucking amazing.
I licked that skin. I trailed my fingers down those washboard abs and traced his tattoos. I rested my feet on those broad shoulders.
Oh crap, I can’t be here! I can’t do this!
You have to! You’re here, so make it count.
Don’t swoon. Be pissed off, damn it! Make him pay!
Every mushy-brained thought I had when I first woke up shoots out of me as my mission to connect quickly becomes a mission of revenge.
I have no idea why it suddenly switches, but it feels fucking good. So, I settle into my anger and snap, “Hey. You remember me?”
He nods, pointing at me with a smile that makes my heart clench.
