Page 11 of Sin Bin

“Where?” he asked curiously.

“It’s a surprise.” She took a quick swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand.

Logan frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, baby. Stop worrying.” She stood and grabbed his hand. “C’mon. We have to go.”

“Where, Mommy? Where are you taking—”

A loud blast of classical music shrieked through Logan’s brain, jolting him awake.

Head pounding, heart pumping from the dream, he rolled over in bed and made a grab for the blaring phone, knocking it off the nightstand.

Cursing a blue streak, he reached down, half falling out of the bed as he fumbled the phone off the floor and slapped it against his ear. “What?”

“Where the hell are you?”

Logan frowned, recognizing the deadly calm voice of his team captain and best friend. “What time is it?”

“After ten o’clock,” Hunter answered. “Did you forget we have morning skate?”

“Shit.” Logan closed his eyes and fell back against his pillow. “I overslept.”

“That’s the second time this month.”

“I know. I—”

“We’re not doing this again, bro. Not this damn close to the playoffs.”

Logan felt a razor slash of guilt. It made him grouchy. “Don’t get your silk boxers in a twist—”

“Fuck you,” Hunter snarled menacingly. “Get your ass over here or you’ll be riding the bench tonight.”

Logan winced, rubbing his temple. “I’m on my way.”

“Don’t make me come looking for you.” Click.

Grimacing, Logan sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His gut was churning and his head was pounding from a monster hangover.

Looking around the unfamiliar room, he tried to sort through his hazy memories of last night. He’d drank way too much and hooked up with a bunny whose name he could barely recall. Amber? Tiffany? Heather?

It was all a fucking blur.

He glanced over his shoulder at the empty spot on the bed. The sheets were rumpled and there was an indent in the pillow. The chick—whatever her name was—had already gotten up. He listened but couldn’t hear any sounds coming from the rest of the house.

It was a weekday, so maybe she’d left for work. He hoped that was the case so he wouldn’t have to deal with the awkward morning-after shit.

When he stood up, his head pounded harder from the sudden rush of blood. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he found his clothes and boots strewn across the floor. He pulled on his boxer briefs and jeans, but his shirt was nowhere to be found.

Frowning, he headed to the adjoining bathroom to take a piss and splash cold water on his face. The countertop was littered with makeup, crumpled tissues, brushes and a bunch of other feminine products. The chick was kind of a slob. Not that he had room to talk. Having a maid was the only thing that kept his place from being a pigsty.

His mouth tasted like shit, so he helped himself to the chick’s mouthwash while glaring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked haggard and beaten. His face was covered in thick stubble and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

He really needed to lay off the booze. With playoffs right around the corner, he couldn’t afford to let his personal life spiral out of control. His teammates would never forgive him if he ruined their shot at winning the Cup.

Hell, he’d never forgive himself.

Frowning at the thought, he left the bathroom, walked over to the bed and sat down to tug on his heavy black boots.

---