Page 49 of Chasing the Puck

I blink my eyes tight. Once. Twice. Several more times. Each time hoping that when I open them, I see something other than what’s in front of me.

Each time, I hope I see two beds.

But each time, I only see one.

Tuck and I stand there, luggage by our sides, looking at the one, single, solitary bed.

Time ticks by.

Then, Tuck laughs.

Tuck cracks up. Deep, booming guffaws trumpeting from his open mouth.

“This isn’t funny,” I say.

“Oh, come on,” he manages through bursts of laughter. “Yes, it is. It’s hilarious.”

I have half a mind to head back to my car and go home. This isn’t what I signed up for. I signed up for a relaxing weekend in a nice hotel room, alone and far away from all the stress in my life.

Instead, I’m sharing a one-bed hotel room with the number one source of that stress.

With a guy whose rugged, masculine scent is already lacing into my nose, diffusing through me and winding me tight, tempting my brain to go down dark, treacherous paths it has no business treading …

With a guy who knows what I feel like pressed against him, who felt me shudder as he made me come, who knows how the juices of my arousal taste …

A hot, tight feeling hums low in my center as my heartbeat leaps into my throat.

“I’ll just sleep on the floor,” Tuck says. “It’s no big deal.”

“You can’t sleep on the floor,” I counter. “Your back hurts, doesn’t it?”

Tuck’s eyebrows draw together, surprise curling on his face. “How do you know that?” Then, the surprise softens, and that signature grin of his breaks out. “Were you watching my game on Wednesday?”

I may have watched highlights.

“I heard Summer mention it,” I fib. “I guess she and Hudson talked about it.”

“Mhm,” Tuck hums, skeptically.

He took a really bad bodycheck against the dasher boards in the Black Bears’ last game on Wednesday. To add insult to injury, it was the first game they lost in a while. He looked like he was in a lot of pain. He had to sit out the rest of the game, which, given Tuck’s dedication to hockey, says a lot.

“Well, I’m fine,” he says. “The floor’s good enough for me. You take the bed. We’ll make it work.”

There’s a reassuring quality to his voice now, after he’s gotten all his laughs out. It’s like he genuinely doesn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable.

“If you need space to get changed or whatever, let me know, and I’ll go chill in the lobby or grab a drink at the hotel bar,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. Tuck may love needling me, but he can be considerate when it counts. Can be. “I may take you up on that.” It would suck having to get changed into my dress in the confines of a hotel bathroom.

“In the meantime,” he says, a hint of gravel creeping into his voice, “why don’t you try out that bed? Let me know what I’m missing out on.”

After the last hour I’ve had, I wouldn’t mind lying flat on something soft right now …

So, I do. I turn around and fall back onto the mattress.

When I lift my head and meet Tuck’s gaze, his jaw muscles are flexing, nostrils flaring at the sight of me lying here.

“How is it?” he asks, the gravelly sound thicker now.

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