Page 9 of Some Like It Hot

So he’s that guy. Can’t admit when he’s wrong. Or maybe when someone else is right.

Either way, it’s not great.

Good thing I’m not in the market for a boyfriend.

Just hot hookup New Year’s Eve sex.

“So.” I take a step back, wincing at the soreness in my hip. I massage it through my dress.

Oddly, I suddenly realize he’s limping a little as he shifts to the left.

“What’s wrong with your hip?” I ask.

“What happened to your hip?” he asks at the exact same time.

“You first,” I say. I’m instantly sympathetic. Goalies do a lot of squatting, sliding, hip rocking… so much body movement.

What started out as sympathy suddenly has me visualizing Blake Wilder hip thrusting naked. I clear my throat and try to steady my phone in my hand.

“Just a hazard of the job.” He shrugs. “You?”

“Just bumped it when the elevator stopped.” I stare at him, my flashlight trained at him. “What did you want to talk about? Anything other than that you obviously saw me in this dress and had to kiss me?”

“Can you take the spotlight off of me?” He crosses his arms over the barrel of his chest.

“Can you answer the question?”

Blake lets out the world’s biggest sigh. “What the hell happened with you and Justin Travers?”

Whatever I thought he was going to say, it wasn’t that. I stare back. Why on earth would he care about that now, after all these months? “That’s none of your business.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

There is momentary satisfaction in his expression before his nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. “Did he hurt you?” he demands. “I’ll fucking kill him. Tell me the truth, Elise.”

I’m fascinated by the display of what… jealousy? I’m not sure if it’s about hockey or me or both, but I can admit that there is something sexy as hell about his reaction. What woman doesn’t want a touch-her-and-die moment from a protective guy?

“He didn’t hurt me. He was just a jerk.”

Blake is silent, watching me. He seems to decide I’m telling the truth. “Did he suck in bed?”

“Okay, just stop right there.” I hold my hand up. “That is really none of your business.” Then because I don’t owe Justin Travers anything and I’m still nauseated and possibly in need of therapy by the fact that he decided to clean himself off post-condom on my childhood teddy bear, I give Blake what he clearly wants to hear. “But yes, he was terrible in bed.” I hold my pinky finger up as a visual display.

Blake’s eyes widen. “For real?”

I nod.

“Well, damn. Holy shit.” He chuckles. “Justin Pinky Dick Travers. I fucking love the sound of that.”

Clearly, whatever perceived threat there was before has instantly been minimized. “I didn’t love it.”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry. He looks thrilled.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” It wasn’t about the fact that Justin wasn’t well-endowed. I can work with small. I can’t work with bad manners and a selfish, accusatory attitude. “Don’t go spreading that around. It’s not his fault.”

“He’s a total asshole,” Blake says. “And now I know why. He’s overcompensating.”

---