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I allow myself a small smile, which I brush off before turning to her. "Do you want me to help you carry your bag?"
"I already said so, didn’t I?"
I fold my arms across my chest and look at her steadily.
She shuffles her feet, glances around, then her features light up. "Finn," she calls out to the man walking into the house. "Can you help me?"
Motherfucker!The wankface prowls over and takes in the scene. "You moving in, Gio?" He shoots her a smile, and my stomach clenches.
"That’s Mac to you,” I say through gritted teeth.
"Mac?" She whips her face in my direction. "What do you mean, Mac?"
"That’s your call sign."
"Call sign? Hockey players don’t have call signs,” she protests.
"On my team, you do. Call it a carry-over of best practices from my military days."
"Call signs?" Finn looks at me oddly.
"Yep." I dare him to contradict me.
He slowly curls his lips. "And I suppose you’re the one who decides who gets called what."
"You bet, I’m the captain."
"But why Mac?" she cries.
"Why don’t you figure it out?"
She shoots me a look which would take down a lesser man. Luckily, it doesn’t affect me at all. If you don’t count the half-chub I’m already sporting in my pants.
"And what am I called—" Finn begins, then holds up a hand. "You know what, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know yet." He reaches for her suitcase, but I’m there first.
"I've got this."
"You do?" She narrows her gaze on me.
I ignore her and jerk my chin toward the living room. "On your way, shit stain."
Finn laughs. "Anytime you need help, my room is on the third floor."
"Get lost," I snap.
"It’s the last door on the right, Mac." He shoots her another smile, then ambles off. Bastard knows how to get on my nerves.
I heft her suitcase which is more of a wardrobe on wheels—and gesture to her to go first. She begins to climb, and I instantly know that was a mistake. Between the tight skirt—black, of course—that she’s wearing and her usual six-inch-heels, her butt sways in the most enticing of fashions. My half-chub extends, making it fucking uncomfortable to walk, let alone climb. I grit my teeth, grip the handle on her bag tighter, and begin the ascent. We pass the landing of the first floor, then the second. My biceps strain and my triceps begin to burn "What do you have in this, stones?" I grunt.
"Books, actually."
We reach the fourth floor, and I follow her to the door at the far end of the landing. She enters, then looks around the master-room which is big enough to look like a studio apartment. In the living space, a massive TV occupies one wall. Opposite it, there’s a sofa with matching armchairs. In between, large French doors open out onto a balcony overlooking the garden below, and beyond that, a view of the city.
"Follow me." I lead her past the sofa and armchairs, which demarcate the living room from the sleeping area, then past the entrance to the bathroom before I pause in front of an expansive wall of mirrors. I slide one open and place her suitcase inside the walk-in closet. When I step out, she’s standing in the middle of the space taking in the enormous bed pushed up against the wall. It’s a California King; wide enough for at least three of the hockey team.
"If we each keep to our side of the bed, we’ll be good."
"What?" She looks at me with horror. "I thought you’d take the couch in the living room.”
