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But not even Steve can heal that hole in my heart.
Ten
Lake
I’m a dumbass.
Pushing for details I don’t want.
I recline back against my headboard, phone in my lap, the tape I need to review already in my team inbox.
Most of it is from the last road trip—a mix of plays from my line, plenty of fuckups I made, a few—and only a few—things that went right (because Coach doesn’t much believe in positive reinforcement). My memory is such that I remember every fuckup with crystal clear accuracy. They’re on replay in my head, the good stuff barely a blip in my thoughts—there and gone in a flash because I can’t get better by focusing on all the things I do right.
I can only get better by fixing the bad shit.
I review some contract offers—sponsorships, promotional events for the vodka company I’m the face of, check the dates of a photoshoot for the underwear brand I work with (and that Steve likes to destroy), and then I look through the workout plan that’s been sent over for me—made in collaboration with the team’s PT staff and my trainer, Ivy. She’s a tiny redheaded dynamo who busts balls and has no problem standing up to grumpy hockey playersandkicking our asses in the weight room. Since I won’t have access to my normal gym if we’re all snowed in, she’s made some changes and modifications to my typical workout so I can exercise here at the house, with the limited equipment I have on hand, for the next couple of days.
And it better only be a couple of days, I think, sniffing the air and catching the faint scent of something cooking—
Or maybe something burning.
“Christ,” I mutter, clicking the button to lock my phone and tossing it onto the nightstand. It lands with a clatter as I push out of bed, feet hitting the floor and—
I curse, sidestep immediately and glare down at the piece of my wet, chewed-up underwear.
“Fucking demon,” I grumble, bending and snatching it up, marching to the bathroom and shoving it in the trash can. Then I’m out in the hall, the scent of burning getting stronger and—
I come to a halt at the mouth of the hall.
What. The. Fuck?
I’d left the kitchen organized. Clean. And now…
It’s a fucking war zone.
I move toward the chaos, drawn like a rubbernecker at the scene of an accident.
A pan is smoking on the stove—on my new fucking stove I haven’t even had the chance to use yet. Plates are stacked in the sink. Boxes are open and shoved haphazardly in different places in the kitchen—seemingly half of what I just stocked into the pantry…and some shit I haven’t.
Hers?
I shake my head, take in the remainder of the chaos—this being caused by a small woman and a tiny demon dog.
“Just. Give it.Back,”she mutters from her hands and knees, shapely ass in the air, arm extended toward—
I frown.
My cabinets.
She flops to her side, feet curling as they press into the floor, body contorting. I can’t see her top half because it’s crammed into the corner cabinet, but I can see enough.
Ass. A strip of skin revealed by her shirt sliding up, showing off a sliver of soft, feminine curves.
But her voice—or maybe I should say, her groans and grunts—as she somehow shoves even more of herself into that cabinet is what has me stopping and staring.
My dick twitching.
“Steve!” she hisses and I blink, ignoring my cock because clearly, I haven’t had enough quality time with it of late, and reconsider that face-down-ass-up position from a different perspective.
