Page 111 of Unmanageable

I walk ahead of him up the wooden steps, my fingers fumbling with the room key card before I swipe it against the lock.

Beep.

The green light flashes. I push the door open, step inside into the warmth of the room, and flip the light switch.

Cash follows me in, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot.

The deadbolt turns with a snap, sealing out the rest of the world and leaving us suspended in the tight, electric space between the entryway and the bed.

Cash sets his duffel bag down by the dresser with a soft thud, then turns around to face me.

By the time he skated off the ice tonight, his jersey was soaked through with sweat and melted ice shavings, his breathing a ragged, deep rattle inside his chest protector.

He hadn’t looked at me when he walked past the bench. He hadn’t joked.

The hockey brain had taken over entirely, leaving him quiet and distant, carrying that heavy, laser-focused intensity right into the van.

The drive back to the hotel was spent in complete silence.

I didn’t say a word, because I know better than to interrupt a goalie when he’s processing a skate. I just watched the trees slide past the glass, my pulse jumping every time he shifted gears, feeling the invisible thread between us pull tauter with every mile.

And now we’re here.

He steps forward, closing the distance between us with slow strides until my back hits the wood of the hotel door. He doesn’t touch me. He just stands there, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, looking down into my face with an intensity that makes my breath instantly stall in my throat.

“Well?” he asks. “Was it good enough?”

“Was what good enough?” I ask, tilting my chin up, refusing to let him see how fast my heart is hammering against my ribs.

“The skate,” he says. “The lanes. The recovery. Did I play the practice the way you wanted it, Scottie?”

“You were perfect,” I whisper, the defense melting right out of my voice.

Cash stares at me for a long, silent second. The hard, distant edge of the hockey player dissolves, replaced by something hungry, and entirely devoted.

Instead of stepping back, he reaches out, his hands sliding up my waist. He rests his palms flat against my hips, his thumbs tracing the line of my belt loops as he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him breathing

“Can I have my trophy now, Scottie?” he murmurs, a quiet plea hiding underneath the cocky edge. “I’ve been a very good client. I haven’t even complained about the video review once. I have been very good.”

I look up at him, a wicked little smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I reach up, my fingers tangling firmly into the damp spikes of his dark hair, and pull his head backward just enough to make him strain to keep eye contact.

“You think because you survived some drills you just get your trophy, O’Connell?” I tease, my voice light and dripping with amusement. “Please. Look at you. You’re so obsessed.”

“Yes, Scottie, I am obsessed.” He smiles. “You should know that by now. I am obsessed with you. Every second of every day. Now hand over the trophy.”

“Well, you have to earn it first, goalie,” I mock.

He rolls his eyes, a low, rich chuckle rumbling in his chest. He steps closer, trying to crowd me further into the door, but in his absolute eagerness to back me down, he leans over me so far that the crown of his forehead clips the sharp metal edge of the door’s deadbolt housing.

Clonk.

For a second, absolute silence fills the room. Cash freezes as he processes the impact. I stare at him, my mouth dropping open.

We both crack at the exact same time.

I double over, giggling like a lunatic, clutching my stomach as the absurdity of the elite franchise goaltender getting defeated by a hotel lock breaks me. Cash throws his head back, letting out a loud, helpless snort of laughter, grabbing the top of his head with one hand.

We’re both standing there in the middle of the room, shoulders shaking, giggling like a couple of kids who just got caught pulling a prank.