Page 48 of On the Breakaway

What the hell am I doing?

I’ve spent the last two weeks actively avoiding this woman. Avoiding the grocery store near my apartment because I know she shops there. Avoiding Liam’s invitations out because there’s a chance she’ll show up too. Convincing myself that whatever happened in that alley behind the bar was just proximity and months of celibacy talking.

Now, I bring her home, taking care of her like some stray animal.

She’s in my apartment, and while I haven’t had a stitch to drink in hours, I’m feeling a little light-headed anyway.

I yank an old t-shirt from one of my drawers along with a pair of sweatpants she’ll absolutely drown in, then head into the kitchen for water bottles and Advil.

The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside the windows and the faint sound of cabinet doors bumping somewhere down the hall while she presumably investigates my bathroom.

By the time I make it back, arms full, I catch sight of her and freeze completely.

She’s standing in the bathroom doorway facing the hallway, halfway through pulling her shirt over her head.

“Shit–” I turn immediately, eyes snapping to the ceiling so fast my neck almost cracks. Unfortunately, it’s not fast enough to prevent me from catching a glimpse of her black lace bra. “Sorry, I was knocking.”

“You were not.”

“…I intended to knock.”

She laughs behind me. I hear her drape something onto the towel rod, but I catch a glimpse of her shirt on the floor. Which means…

Her bra.

Fantastic.

I stare harder at the opposite wall, regretting every second of my life that has brought me to this moment.

She grabs the shirt that I have draped over my shoulder.

“You can turn around,” she says.

Carefully, I glance back.

She’s swallowed by the oversized shirt now, hair messy around her face, bare legs disappearing beneath the hem.

I follow her back into the guest room and set the water bottles and Advil on the nightstand.

“Take these before bed unless you want to wake up feeling like death.”

She eyes the pills. “You really are responsible.”

I snort. “I’m captain of a professional hockey team full of teammates who make bad decisions like it’s their full-time job. Somebody has to be responsible.”

“That explains a lot, actually.”

She takes the pills before sinking down onto the edge of the mattress, oversized shirt sliding off one shoulder slightly. My eyes trail the sliver of her collarbone that’s visible before she fixes it again.

“You always look annoyed when you talk to me,” she says suddenly.

I lean back against the dresser across from her, crossing my arms mostly so I stop noticing stupid things, like the curve of her legs disappearing beneath my shirt or the fact that she smells faintly like my soap now underneath the tequila.

“That’s because talking to you usually raises my blood pressure.”

She huffs out a tired sigh. The thing is, it’s true.

Avery gets under my skin faster than anyone I’ve ever met. She pushes constantly. Pokes. Challenges. Every glance from her feels as if she’s waiting for me to disappoint her. Every conversation with her somehow leaves me feeling irritated and weirdly restless.