I felt cleaner after a long shower, but not any better. She—Nicole?—was still in my bed. Sprawled out on top of the bed sheets, a tired, naked, sweaty heap.
She smiled sleepily. “Hello again, Hunter Rockwell.”
I sat at the foot of the bed. “Hey.”
She had the TV on the local sports channel. Highlights of the game played. They showed my last-second scoring chance, again and again, from every possible angle. Each time, I missed that shot, no matter how much I stillexpectedit to go in.
She pressed herself into my backside. The points of her hard nipples dragged against my back. She wrapped her arms around my chest. Her hands dipped down my bare torso, heading for my cock.
But I pushed her hand away. “You really have to watch this right now?”
“You can turn it off … I was just waiting for you.”
The talking head on TV spouted off, sounding so angry, you could almost see the spittle flying from his chapped lips:
“Three years ago? In Boston? Rockwell would've scored that goal. So what happened? What's his problem? At this point, it doesn't matter, we have to stop making excuses for his play. At 23 years old, Rockwell is justnotthe player that the Colorado Blizzard thought they were getting when they traded for him!It's time for the Blizzard to cut bait and move on. You know, some people have floated the idea that Rockwell was just the product of a much more skilled teammate in Boston. I'm talking, of course, about Chris Cunningham—”
I bolted off the bed, hurried over to the TV and shut the damned thing off.
I scratched my head, avoiding eye contact with the girl in my bedroom. “Listen. We're starting a road trip tomorrow. I've got an early flight to St. Louis in the morning.”
Nicole blinked. “Oh …?”
I climbed into bed and let my head finally hit the pillow. “So. You know. You should probably go.”
She laughed bitterly. “Wow. So—that's it? You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?”
I rolled on my side, away from her. “I tried to warn you.”
“Fuck you,Hunter Rockwell,” she hissed.
She hopped out of bed and dressed herself in a quiet but livid rage. She stormed out of the room with her high heels in her hands—but she stopped in the doorway to give me one last piece of her mind.
“They're right, you know. You fuckingsuck.”
I breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut behind her.
Yeah, that's what they say.
Chapter 3:
Do Not Fuck the Players
Honor
Five days later—Thursday evening.
I was painting in the spare bedroom when I heard the pounding at our door. I listened for a beat or two, hoping thesounds of videogame warfare—brat-a-tat-tat-tat! BOOM! Aaaaah!—would cease for a moment.
But they didn't.
“Are you going to get the door?” I called out to Todd. Hewasright next to the front door, after all.
“I can't!” Todd yelled back. “I'm in a match!”
“Okay,” I groaned, setting aside my watercolors as quickly and carefully as I could.
I raced through our apartment and flung the door open. The package delivery man had already started his trek back to his truck, and I had to sprint after him.
