Page 33 of Knotted Laces

I’m frozen for probably far too long, half-convinced that I’m still dreaming, but then I become aware of the water droplets.

They’re sliding down my chest.

And they’re fuckingcold.

And I’m fuckingnaked.

What the?—

There’s clattering from the kitchen, so I snap to attention, grabbing the towel and scrubbing it over my face, my hair and my fucking naked body.

I exhale, toss it to the side, stumble over to my duffle shoved in the corner of the room, and yank out some clothes. It takes me just a couple of minutes to get dressed, and the entire time the clanging doesn’t stop.

Christ, will I even have a kitchen to return to by the time I get out there?

I hustle down the hall, and I’d be lying if I said my head wasn’t spinning, the walls weren’t moving.

Maybe beerandwhisky was a bad idea.

But fuck it.

The off-season is here. The Grizzlies are advancing to the finals and I’m…

Crash.

“Shit,” I mutter, turning the corner and heading into the kitchen.

Athena has a pot on the stove, and the fridge door is open, her shapely ass on full display as she pulls open one of the plastic drawers and then slams it closed. “What the fuck is this shit?” she snaps, stomping across the space and throwing open a cabinet before glancing over her shoulder and glaring at me. “Do youevenhave any food fit for human consumption?”

“It’s just salad, Ats,” I say, tamping down on my dick’s reaction to her lush ass. “And protein bars and?—”

“Rice and chicken and fucking broccoli,” she snaps. “Where’s the chocolate? Where’s the chips? Where’s the junk food you can gorge on?”

“I feel like shit after eating that crap,” I mutter.

A huffed-out laugh. “And you don’t feel like shit half-drunk after”—she yanks open the top of the freestanding trash can—“downing an entire bottle of whisky and case of beer?”

She has a point.

But I can’t bring myself to agree with her.

Because I feel like shit right about now—and that’swiththe buzz still clinging to my brain.

“And to do that allwithoutany junk food?” she snaps, throwing up her hands and stomping to the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask when she flings it open so hard it slams into the wall.

A fierce glare over her shoulder before she stomps down the stairs and over to her car, wrenching open that door with a sickening screech. It’s starting to rain, the sky clouded over, the drops turning the dirt in front of my cabin into a Pollock-like smattering of dark brown and light.

“Christ,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face.

I hear her slam the driver’s side door then watch as she storms back over, a tote bag in hand. She shoves by me and moves into the kitchen, slamming it down onto the old wooden table.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she reaches inside the canvas bag.

“Offering up my Car Snacks to a dumbass hockey player,” she mutters. “Close the door.” A snapped-out order. “It’s getting fucking cold out there.”

Right.

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