Page 49 of Center Ice
“Right,” Jules says the word slowly. “So, when was the last time you and Karl had sex, then?”
I bite my lip, realizing that I haven’t seen Karl since before Drew and I had dinner.
“So not since Drew came back into your life, at least?” Paige asks.
“No. But I had my period, and then I got sick…and, like, this length of time isn’t totally unusual.”
“You have a guy waiting around to bang you whenever you want, and you go more than three weeks without sex?” Morgan asks. “Sounds like he’s either not great in bed, or you’ve just been thinking about Drew.”
Images of the night I woke up on my couch next to Drew flash through my head—a highlight reel of all the ways he touched me, how close I was to letting him get me off even though I was having my period—and my body reacts to the memories as if they were happening, sending a flash of heat and a full-body shudder through me.
Paige laughs. “Oh girl, you have it so, so bad for him.”
I cross my arms under my chest, and as I glance down, I notice how it pushes my cleavage up into the V-neck of my sweater. Suddenly, I wish Drew was here. I wish his hands were on me. I wish so many things that should never be.
“I don’t,” I insist. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t do anything about it because of Graham.”
“If my dad has taught me one thing about hockey players,” Morgan says, “it’s that when they want something, they go after it a hundred and ten percent. So I hope you’re prepared to resist him, because I have a feeling it’s going to be harder than you realize.”
But it won’t be, because Drew is the one with other priorities. And he’s too smart to let his focus wander in a way that could complicate his life even more than it already is. Who knows, we might be the right people for each other, but it is most definitely the wrong time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DREW
It’s still dark out when my alarm goes off, which I know because apparently, I never shut the curtains. Outside my hotel room window, the lights of the surrounding office buildings glow faintly. It’s too early for people to be at work. I groan as I roll to my side, searching for my phone. My body still hurts, but my head feels better than it did before.
I snatch my phone off the nightstand, but when I go to touch the screen to turn off the alarm, my options are “Accept” or “Decline.” That’s when I realize it’s not my alarm, it’s a video call from Audrey. And according to my phone, it’s almost midnight.
I accept the call before I really consider whether it’s a good idea to talk to her when I’m in this feverish state. “Hey.”
“I’m sorry I’m calling so late.” Her room is dark, and her face is lit only by the phone screen. She’s lying on her side, her head on her pillow and her dark hair falling along the side of her face and across her bare shoulder.
“Don’t be. I’m glad you did.”
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I was dead asleep. Give me a minute and I’ll let you know. Wait…how did you know I was sick?”
“Heard it from Jameson when he barged into my house, demanding to know how you got strep. A little warning would have been nice.”
“Fuck, Audrey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that possibility. I should have given you a heads up. I came back to the hotel room and fell asleep.”
“When was that?” Her brows scrunch together, leaving an adorable crease between them. I want to reach over and smooth my thumb over that space, tell her she can relax because I’ll be fine. But I can’t because she’s in Boston and I’m in Florida. And I’ve never hated road trips until right now.
“Around lunchtime. I woke up again when the team doctor stopped by to check on me. She said I can fly home tomorrow if I feel up to it and if I wear a mask on the plane.”
“Your team doctor is a female who makes hotel room visits?”
“Don’t be smartass,” I say, even though the thought of her being jealous brings a sick sense of satisfaction. “She brought me some electrolyte water and checked on me before heading back to the arena for the game. Shit. I don’t even know if we won or lost.”
“Lost, sorry. It was 3-2.”
“Fuck. I feel responsible.” I press my palm against my forehead, wishing this headache would recede.
“Don’t. Colt played like shit—you couldn’t have stopped those goals.”
“Maybe I could have stopped the puck from getting down to the crease.”
