Page 82 of Traded

Chapter twenty-four

Broken Dreams of Loaded Fries

Games Played:15/82

Blackwater Aces

7–6–2

5th Atlantic Division

1 point out of WC2

Jeff Akerman, NPHL Network Analyst:

"Who are the Aces? I think they’ve always been one of the league’s more difficult teams to read, and that hasn’tchanged under Boone Mercer’s leadership. At their best, they have the speed and scoring talent to trouble anyone. The problem’s always been consistency. They’re entering this Midwest swing one point out of WC2, and with the Atlantic already beginning to separate, they can’t afford to let this uneven start become a lasting pattern."

Jackknifing upright, I claw for air through the cloth that covers my mouth—

Oh.

Nota cloth. Just my hair, clumped and messy where I stumbled out of the bath, accompanied by a healthy dose of drool to attach it to my face.

Sexy.

Relieved that nobody’s here to witness me fighting my imaginary intruder, I take in the darkened room. A faint yellow glow offers a sliver of light, courtesy of the city nightscape beyond.

Huh. Reaching for my phone, I wipe my crusty eyes and blink hazily at the screen.

A whole lot of missed messages greet me. Mostly from an increasingly irritated Liam. Slowly releasing my fingers, I let my phone tumble back down onto the bed next to where I seem to have taken an accidental nap. “Whoops.”

Too late to call him back anyway. The clock beside my bed shows it’s after eleven. Everyone will be in bed by now in prep for an early start at the Chicago rink tomorrow.

What a shame.

I pluck the room service menu from the bedside table with a hum of excitement. My stomach rumbles back, adding some lovely bass as I run my finger down the offerings and tap my finger against the loaded fries options.

Load me the fuck up. I’mstarving.

Weirdly buoyant, I grab the in-room phone and tap out the number for the room service gremlins to deliver an absolute feast. No more visits until tomorrow at least, and my stomach flips at the thought before I shove it away.

Nobody is ruining my fries and wine—

Wait. I pull back the phone to look at it before holding it to my ear again.

Nothing. Nada. No dialing tone greets me, no dulcet tones asking if I want extra cheese, or garlic sauce, or peppercorn. Not a sniff of a side of nachos.

The fuck?

I topple off the bed. Whimpering in desperation, I follow the phone cord all the way back to the wall.

Plugged in, switched on. But impossibly, infuriatingly, notworking.

I stare at the phone in horror, and it glimmers back in all its shiny plastic glory, mocking me in my hour of need.

My stomach grumbles again. It’s been a long time since I choked through my hairy kiwi at breakfast. Jonas’s slack jaw as he watched his scent match delicately pick over a plate of melon balls didn’t help. It was like a golden retriever watching a piece of cheese dangle in mid-air. A strand of dribble wouldn’t have surprised me.

The jokes I could have made had burned against my tongue, fighting against Liam’s commands and unfortunately winning.