Page 6 of My Brother's Teammates

“Dude, you need to get laid.”

I give Mateo another look, but he only laughs and adds, “Just remember, Charlie is off-limits.”

“It looks like two against one,” Roman says, looking between Mateo and me. “She can stay as long as she needs to, but she takes over the bulk of the cooking and helps with cleaning, so we don’t accidentally hire another rabid fan who’s going to steal my underwear and sell it on the internet.”

I let out a long sigh and try to figure out if I can think of any other excuses or say no without looking like an even bigger asshole. When I come up empty, I nod in defeat.

“Perfect. Now, who’s going to tell her the good news?” Roman’s fixating on the wrong thing. What he should be wondering is who’s going to tell her brother. Harrison’s not going to be thrilled at the idea of his little sister living with three single NHL players.

It’s sure as shit not going to be me.

I’m not telling anyone anything. These fucks want her to live here, they can figure it out.

THREE

Charlotte

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jace’s disdain crawls over my body as I lean against Harrison’s old bedroom door, the cool panel of wood sticking to my still-naked back.

I’ve always thought I was comfortable in my own skin, yet something deep inside my chest cracked at the thinly veiled loathing on Jace’s face as he stared down at my very naked body. I hate that I let him make me feel like this—small, insecure, ugly.

He’s not worth my tears, I know that, but it doesn’t stop a few from trailing down my cheeks all the same.

I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t care. He’s my brother’s best friend, for fuck’s sake. We practically grew up together. I shouldn’t want him to want me. Especially after…

Nope. I can’t think about that right now.

Pushing away from the door, I toss my damp hair over my shoulder and steel my spine. I still need a place to stay, and after Shane’s transgressions and his disregard for me, I’m not going to let these guys—or any guys—intimidate me.

Doesn’t matter if the scent of spiced vanilla coming from Roman’s sweatshirt makes me want to cuddle with him on the couch, I’m done with men. Done letting them run my life. I’m done living for someone else.

It’s my turn.

After tossing the sweatshirt on the unmade bed, I unpack all my shit, manifesting all the positive energy I can muster. There’s no way they’re kicking me out. I’ll be the best roommate ever. I don’t mind picking up after them, and I always pay my share of the rent on time. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.

They won’t even know I’m here.

Before I was so rudely interrupted, I had planned to dig out my sweats, plop my ass on their couch with all the popcorn and chocolate I could eat, and watch something trashy on their enormous flat-screen. I need to feed my feelings, maybe wallow in them for a day or two before I pull myself together.

No way that’s happening now. I can’t eat a crap-ton of junk food in front of three guys who look like that.

I find myself reaching for my new yoga pants, the ones from the internet that give you a perfectly perky ass, and a tank that says, “Sweet, Sassy, and Southern Classy” on the front.

Fuck Jace Theriot. Fuck him and his beautiful green eyes and Cupid’s bow lips that I definitely don’t think about kissing again. I’m not letting his shitty attitude ruin my night. I had my fill of that with Shane, and I’m just done.

Frustration surges through my veins as I yank open the door and walk face-first into a wall… A warm, muscular wall with the same spicy vanilla scent as that hoodie.

I stumble backward, but before my ass can meet the wood floor, strong hands grip my waist. I gasp.

Holy shit.

A flicker of warmth sparks low in my belly, and I’m not sure whether to fan it or douse it with water or pour on the gasoline. His hands have no right feeling so damn good.

He takes up all the space in front of me, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, and really, his whole-ass persona. It’s easy to see why he has one of the best save percentages in the league. I don’t know how any pucks make it past him into the net.

Jesus. Those shoulders.

With my heart racing and my breath caught in my throat, I reach out to stabilize myself, but it’s a mistake. I thought grabbing his arms would be safe, but no. My hands land on firm, bitable biceps. Good lord, this guy is ripped.

---