Page 82 of The Goalie in Room 1

On his lips.

Not imagined. Not implied. Not something I’d convinced myself I heard because I wanted to hear it.

He’d said it. Gasped it.

More than once, but that last one…holy hell. My name had come out of Thad’s mouth.

“Wow…um…fuck.”

“Shit,” he said.

“Yeah.”

His eyes closed.

I should leave.

That thought penetrated the whiskey haze before anything else did. I hadn’t meant to walk in on him. I’d knocked. Apparently not loud enough, but I’d fucking knocked, and when he didn’t answer, my slightly drunk brain had decided opening the door was the next logical step.

It had not been the next logical step.

I shifted my crutches. The movement made Thad’s eyes open.

“I was looking for you.”

His eyebrows rose.

Brilliant, Benjamin.

“Obviously I found you.”

“Cash. Out.”

“Right. Leaving.”

I backed up, nearly clipped the doorframe with my crutch, corrected, then pulled the door closed behind me.

And stood there.

One second. Two. Three.

My heart thundered like ten or twelve herds of fucking elephants, and it wouldn’t slow the fuck down. I looked toward my bedroom, then back at his closed door.

Well. That had happened.

I’d known Thad wanted me. He knew I knew. Hell, I’d told the man I wanted him in my bed and my life, and he’d told me he wanted me. But did he want all of me? All the time. Pushing away the concern, I sighed.

We’d had the conversation. We’d made the choice. I’d chosen him as my surgeon, knowing exactly what that meant.

None of that prepared me for what I’d just seen.

Or heard.

My name.

Jesus Christ.

He wanted me.