Page 62 of These Wicked Hearts

He called Atlas a runner, but I’d run too if you were constantly bringing up shit I don’t want to talk about. He shifts a little against me. The soft hairs of his beard scratch my skin. Then his eyes open slowly, and I don’t think I can breathe.

They’re such an odd shade of blue. Nearly electric. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Sorry. Am I snoring on you?”

“More worried about the puddle of drool.”

He scowls, lifting his head a little, then rests his head back down. “No I didn’t.”

I laugh a little. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have a five-hour flight later today and I don’t want to leave this bed.”

I grin wider.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m a hockey player. We’re always hungry.”

I huff a laugh then drop a kiss onto his lips. “Let me go make my hockey player something to eat.” He blinks before I realize what I’ve just said. “My, in the general sense.”

“Uh-huh. Of course. My. Perfectly mundane and not possessive at all.”

“Shut up.”

He presses a quick kiss to my mouth, smirking as he gets up, and I roll onto my stomach, watching his perfect ass until my bathroom door shuts.

I better get up.

I grab a pair of sweats and slip them on before tugging a shirt over my head. I find his clothes folded on my dresser and have a thought to hide them. Should have taken his boxers too. I’d be more than okay with him walking around my apartment naked.

That’s all this is. He’s gorgeous. That’s all. I’ve never been this attracted to someone in my entire life. The chemistry is messing with me. I’ve never felt anything like this before.

Shaking it off, I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. I don’t have much in here. I grab some potatoes and start to cut them up, tossing them in olive oil and seasoning them. Then I dump them in the air fryer.

Atlas walks in a few minutes later with briefs on and damp hair. “When is your flight?”

“I have to be down at the arena by noon.” I look at the clock. We have a few hours.

“Do you like traveling? It’s my least favorite part of my job.” Well, second least favorite. I’m lucky we don’t have to do it as much now. Not that I don’t love performing for fans, but I love being home.

“Yes and no. It keeps me busy. On schedule. When I’m home in the off season, I’m kind of all over the place. It gives me structure.”

“Can I ask something very personal?”

He shrugs his large shoulders. “Well, you already know my birthday. Nothing’s sacred anymore.” I smile, making a mental note. His birthday’s in a couple of weeks. “When’s yours?”

I ignore his question. “Do you consider yourself an alcoholic?” In this industry, I’ve been around a lot of drug addicts and alcoholics, but last night with him, the way he declined was impressive.

He sighs, drumming his fingers on my countertop. “I would say yes, but I’ve had people tell me I can’t be. It’s odd, I guess. It’s like, if I know I have a game in the morning, I don’t drink. If I have practice or media, I don’t either. It’s when I have nothing to do. It’s like my mind goes hey, one drink won’t hurt. It’s not like I have plans. Once that thought hits me and I know I have nothing to do, that’s it. Then one turns to five. I don’t have any control and I can’t say no. Once I start it’s almost impossible for me to stop. Next thing I know I’m spending my day off on the couch, sick, with a killer headache and very little memory of what happened.”

“Then I would definitely say yes.”

Atlas looks at me. “I’ve had people tell me it doesn’t count. I don’t crave it. I don’t have withdrawals. Impulse control is the issue I’ve been told, not alcohol.”

“That doesn’t matter, Atlas.” Who the hell are these people? “If you have a problem with it, then take it seriously. You know your body and your mind. Don’t minimize it.” He should be proud of himself for refusing when he has. “You didn’t drink last night when your friends did. That was amazing.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“It is that hard. You made a choice. A great choice. Be proud.”