Page 12 of Slapshot Baby

His features are softer when he's not conscious, more vulnerable. His broken nose is more prominent from this angle. There's a scar along his jawline I didn't notice before.

I need to be careful here. I need to put space between us.

Wanting someone like Kai is easy. It's the staying that gets dangerous.

But that means nothing the second his arm settles over my waist like it's done this a hundred times before. I turn my back to him, pulling his arm tighter around me.

Tonight, I'll let myself have this.

Tomorrow, I'll pretend I didn’t.

Because sex with Kai is a one-time thing. Nothing more.

4

KAI

The Score

Six years of one-night stands here and there, and I've never once woken up still touching someone.

Normally, I’m on the other side of the bed trying to make sure the hookup girl doesn’t mistake one night for an invitation to more. My schedule doesn’t include a stranger in my bed past sunrise.

But today, I wake with my arm around Ava’s waist.

She's turned in her sleep, her back against my chest, my arm around her waist like I put it there on purpose. Her hair smells like citrus. Her breathing is steady and soft.

Her hand finds my arm, presses it closer.

I don't move.

That's new.

I lie there feeling the warm weight of her against my side, listening to her slow breathing. Her presence is so grounding, I want to keep holding her like this.

She turns and stirs after a while, her eyes opening. She blinks, confused for a second before her face settles into recognition. Then she tips her face up to look at me.

There's a faint crease on her cheek from the pillow. Her hazel eyes are softer in the morning light, less guarded than they were at the gala. They look closer to green in the morning light.

Her hair's come loose from whatever knot she'd had it in last night, chestnut brown spilling over my pillow. It’s longer than it looked under the gala's chandeliers.

She's tall even lying down, the kind of long-limbed that makes her impossible to lose in a crowded room.

There's nothing performed about her like this. No designer posture, no room to manage. Just a woman taking up space in my bed like she has every right to be here.

"You're a morning person," she says, voice still rough with sleep. It's not a compliment.

"I'm a hockey player. Morning is relative."

"It's six-thirty."

"That's practically afternoon."

She frowns like I've said something offensive, then drops her face back against my chest.

"I'm leaving in ten minutes."

She doesn't leave in ten minutes.