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“There was no scandal,” I growl in response. “And if I want to get laid, that’s my business, not yours, and certainly not the team’s.”
“Actually, that nine million dollar contract you signed makes everything you do the team’s business. Why the hell my father chose to invest in you, I have no idea. But he did, so here we are. Why are youhereanyway?”
“Because I beat the shit out of my former coach and got kicked off the team. I needed a job.” I shrug.
“No, here, in this hotel,” she clarifies.
“I’m having the apartment fumigated. I can’t sleep there.”
“Well, you can’t sleep here either,” she tells me.
“Why the fuck not?” I wait as she pulls out her phone and taps on the screen before she turns it around to show me a picture of myself. It’s not one of my finer moments. After I got dropped by Montreal, I went on a bender. Girls, booze, and more girls. Although this picture would have you believe I was using coke, I’ve never touched the shit and never will. I’m an athlete, not a fucking idiot. “That isn’t what it looks like,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s a photo. It’s exactly what it looks like. You whoring around with a bunch of puck bunnies is one thing. But don’t pretend like it’s anything more than what it is. They don’t like you. They like your sperm, so they have a meal ticket for the rest of their lives. Don’t believe for one second that they’re with you for any other reason. No self-respecting woman would be caught in a position like this.”
I’m starting to think this Little Miss Goody Two-shoes attitude needs to be rumpled a bit, and I know just how to do it. “You sound jealous. We could fix that, you know. Come up to the room with me and I’ll show you exactly what those girls were there for.” I rub a hand along my jawline. “By the way, in case you’re wondering.” I lean in so that my mouth is a breath away from hers. “It was for the earth-shattering orgasms I can give them, not my babymakers.”
“Yeah, you’re not staying here. Follow me. I’m taking you home,” she says, pulling back before maneuvering around me.
“Well, when you ask so politely, how can I refuse?” I grin while stepping up next to her. Without thinking, I rest my palm on the lower curve of her back. Which she instantly shakes off, then moves to the side to create more space between us.
“It’s my job to make sure you don’t get yourself into trouble and create bad press for the team. I happen to take my job seriously. We can’t all skate by on pure luck.”
Okay, that stings. I pride myself on how hard I’ve fucking worked to get to where I am. Ask any pro athlete—luck has nothing to do with it. It takes hours of training, early mornings, constantly aching muscles. I could respond, let her know just how hard I’ve worked to get here, but what’s the point? This chick has some preconceived notion about who I am. It ain’t my job to prove her wrong.
Instead, I follow her to the front of the hotel. She hands the valet a ticket stub and looks everywhere but at me as she waits for her car to be brought around. A few minutes later, the valet pulls up in a bright-yellow Lamborghini Urus. He hands the key fob over to Aliyah, and she finally turns and looks my way.
“Get in,” she says right before she hops into the driver’s seat and closes her door.
I look behind me. I could just walk back inside the hotel. It’s a free world after all. And then the flashing of cameras starts. My name being screamed as people practically run towards me has me climbing in her car and slamming the door shut. Blocking out the noise of the paparazzi.
“How the fuck did they know I was here?” I grunt.
“Probably Laura.” Aliyah smirks. “Girls like that would pay anything to be seen with someone like you.”
“Who?” I ask, my brows drawn down in confusion. Aliyah rolls her eyes as she puts her foot down and peels out of the hotel’s porte cochère. I scramble to get my seat belt buckled. “Nice car. I didn’t know babysitters were so well paid,” I comment while admiring the vehicle’s interior.
“It was a gift,” she says, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
“From your hockey player boyfriend?”
Am I probing to find out if she’s single?Yes.
Am I trying to get under her skin while I do it?Also yes.
“From a hockey player, yes. Boyfriend, no,” she responds cryptically.
“You just have hockey players buying you luxury vehicles? You must be a good babysitter.”
“Actually, you’re my first assignment. And, trust me, it’s not something I willingly signed up for. Honestly, if today is any indication of how this season is going to go, then I may just get one of my brothers to kill you,” she says.
“They could try,” I reply. To which, she just shakes her head and laughs.
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into a gated estate, the long driveway leading up to a massive mansion. “This is where you live?” I ask Aliyah.
“Uh-huh. Sure,” she says before pulling the car to a stop, cutting the engine, and turning to me with a frown. “Word of advice? If you want to keep your tongue in your mouth, refrain from making any inappropriate sexual comments. And if you want to keep your fingers attached to your hands, also refrain from touching me.” With that said, she gets out of the car.
I’d like to think she’s kidding, but I’ve heard the rumors about her family, which is the real reason a babysitter can afford to live in a house like that and drive a car like this. I slide out of the passenger’s side and quickly fall into step with Aliyah. I throw one last glance over my shoulder at the Lambo. I am curious, though, as to which player bought her that thing. And why.
