Page 373 of Faking the Goal

Traitor.

Still, I can't complain too much. Every day my arm hurts a little less, and if everything keeps healing the way it has been, I should be cleared in time for the conference championship next Saturday.

Until then, apparently my official responsibilities are light practice, wound care, and allowing my girlfriend to fuss over me twenty-four hours a day.

Could be worse.

A hell of a lot worse, actually.

When I get home, I head straight upstairs to my room, already expecting to find Taylor there. The rest of the guys are still at the rink finishing practice, but since the trainers still won't let me do much beyond light skating and controlled drills, they sent me home early rather than have me stand around watching everyone else actually play hockey. Not that I complained. Getting home to Taylor twenty minutes earlier is probably the only upside to being temporarily useless.

Except when I push open my bedroom door, she's nowhere to be found.

"Trouble?"

No answer.

I toss my bag beside the dresser and head back into the hallway to look for her. That's when I hear the unmistakable whir of a blow-dryer coming from the bathroom directly across from my bedroom.

Well. Mystery solved.

I cross the hall and knock on the door. "Trouble?"

Still nothing, although with the damn dryer going, she probably can't hear me.

I try the knob and find it unlocked. "Taylor?"

I slowly push the door open, and the second I see her, whatever exhaustion I brought home from practice promptly becomes somebody else's fucking problem.

Taylor is standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around her body, the hem barely reaching the middle of her thighs. Her skin is still flushed from the shower, pale and soft beneath the bathroom lights, and her damp red hair spills over her shoulders in long, fiery strands as she works the dryer through it. Fucking beautiful. There's something about her hair when it's wet that makes the red look deeper, richer against her complexion, and for a second I just stand there appreciating the unfairness of one woman getting to look like a fucking goddess while doing something as ordinary as drying her hair.

Although, who am I kidding? She looks like a goddess every damn day.

Eventually, her eyes lift to the mirror and meet mine in the reflection. She doesn't startle. Doesn't even pretend to be surprised that I've wandered in here like a creep. Instead, one corner of her mouth slowly curves upward and she gives me that sultry little look she knows turns my knees into fucking decorative accessories.

She switches off the dryer, and the sudden silence fills with all the things neither of us needs to say. I stride toward her without even attempting to disguise my intentions because dignity seems pointless when my girlfriend can already read every filthy thought directly off my face.

Taylor turns to face me and leans her hip against the counter. Then, because she's evil, she shifts one leg slightly forward, parting the towel just enough along her thigh to expose another tempting stretch of pale skin.

My eyes drop.

Her smile widens.

Little menace.

"How was practice?" she asks innocently.

"Tiring." I stop directly in front of her, letting my gaze travel deliberately back up to her face.

"Oh?" Her eyebrows lift as she toys absently with the edge of her towel. "So I guess you're exhausted, then. Probably don't have enough energy left for... anything else tonight."

The innocence in her voice deserves a fucking award.

I step closer until she's trapped between me and the counter, bracing my good hand beside her hip. "Depends."

"On?"

"How physically demanding this anything else you're proposing is."