Page 33 of Power Play

Scrubbing a hand over my face and groaning, I stand and head for the door. Unlocking the deadbolt, I lean against the frame and stare at the short blonde.

She jumps back like she wasn’t expecting me and lets out a soft laugh.

“Was your pink jacket not enough stomach medicine for you?” I ask.

“Liam.” She blinks and smiles. Laughs again. “Hi.”

“Hi. Please don’t tell me this is an interview.”

“No. I’m here on personal business.” Piper tugs on her pencil skirt. My eyes bounce to her hips and linger there for a second—maybe it’s two—before moving back to her face. “Can I come in?”

“Uh.” I rub the back of my neck. I’m thrust back to when my fingers were in the belt loop of her jeans. Her gasp when our chests collided and how close I was to doing something really fucking stupid, like kissing her. “Sure.”

Piper slides past me, and I close the door behind her. She walks down the hall, her heels clicking and clacking on the hardwood floor. There’s a pep in her step and I follow behind her, still unsure of what the hell is going on.

“Wow.” She looks around my living room. Walks to the floor-to-ceiling windows and presses her nose against the glass. “Look at this view.”

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“Do you mind if I sit?”

“Wherever you’re comfortable. Want something to drink?”

Piper takes a spot on the couch, sitting on the edge of the cushions and running her palms down her thighs then back up. “Do you have any alcohol?”

“Beer? Wine? Something stronger? All three?”

“Whiskey, please. Neat.”

I nod and open the liquor cabinet I keep stocked for the offseason. I grab a glass and pour her a finger of the amber liquid, handing it her way. “There you go.”

“Thank you.” Piper brings the glass to her mouth and finishes the drink in two gulps. “That’s better.”

I’ve seen her drink before.

At the western bar.

At a team fundraiser last season.

On a night when I reluctantly went to a club with the team during an away game. I hated every second of it, but the evening ended up better than it started: with Piper at a burger joint and ketchup on her nose.

She was drunk as hell.

Giggling uncontrollably and nearly falling off her stool. From anyone else, I would’ve been annoyed. With her, I thought it was cute. Endearing, almost, to see her let go for a while. She’s normally so buttoned up. Professional and poised and someone who follows the rules. Watching her walls come down was the highlight of that road trip.

The whole damn season, probably.

I doubt she remembers it, but I do.

The dress she was wearing. The way she looped her arm through mine when we shuffled down the sidewalk and avoided piles of snow. How she stuck her tongue out when I said I didn’t want anything to eat and the tipsy grin she tossed my way when I gave in and ordered a milkshake, just to make her happy.

It was the most I’d laughed in years.

When I tucked her into bed at the hotel and stayed an extra hour after she fell asleep to make sure she didn’t throw up, I wondered what it would be like to laugh like that every damn day.

“So, Mitchell. Are you on the run?” I ask.

Her face softens. She drags her thumb over her bottom lip and sinks her teeth into the lipstick she’s wearing. “Would you help me if I was?”

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