Page 103 of Unsteady

I find my leggings from the night before, as well as my bra and underwear, but Idowear the shirt with his name on the back for my trek to the kitchen.

Only, when I step out, there’s a shuffling noise. A leggy blonde is bouncing on the balls of her tall sock-clad feet, shoving a very large black lab back from one of the bedroom doors. She finally gets the whining animal back, murmuring softly to it, before closing the door as quietly as possible. It’s clear she’s trying to leave without getting caught, her hair in a high messy bun and a massive threadbare shirt covering her like a dress.

“You okay?” I ask, walking towards her.

But I freeze completely when she spins towards me, a set of wide anxious brown eyes locking to me. Eyes that belong to none other than Paloma Blake.

We both gape at each other, frozen and unsure.

She straightens first, pulling her back tight so her posture is more confident.

“Slept over, did you?” I say, sounding snarky, then step past her to lumber down the stairs.

“Seems you did too, huh?” She smiles, stepping with me. Whatever prevented her from descending the stairs earlier is swallowed by her want to banter with me. “I guess I should just disregard our little conversation, huh?”

My temper flares, but I don’t know how amendable the team would be to my pushing their precious puck bunny down the stairs. Or clawing her eyes out—though I don’t think my short nails will hold up to her sharp ones.

We nearly reach the bottom when a booming laugh echoes from nearby and Paloma grabs my armtight.

“Jesus, Blake,” I snap, but her other hand slaps over my mouth.

“Can you just…” She sighs, and I swear if I didn’t know any better I’d think she was going to cry. “Can you not say anything about me? Just go in there and keepallof them in there?”

I don’t want to help her. In reality, I can’tstandher. But she looks remarkably desperate.

“What the hell is your problem?” I whisper, my words barely audible over her firm hand.

Her eyes flare. “God, Sadie, don’t be such a bitch.”

“Takes one to know one,” I say, pulling her hand off. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and decide to announce your presence like we’re at medieval court.”

She’s gone faster than the words come, but still manages to close the door carefully.

Just as she does, a player I recognize from answering the door last night appears around the corner. He looks like a sweeter version of Freddy, like an innocent handsome boy instead of the cat that caught the canary.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles, but it's all disarming. The pet name doesn’t seem to be a flirt, more like manners from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon. “Lost?”

“Looking for your captain, actually.”

He laughs and points over his shoulder. “He seems in a good mood. I think this might be his new pregame ritual.” I walk past him with a smile, but I know my cheeks are turning bright red and I curse myself again for being so pale.

The kitchen, much like the rest of the house, is fairly spotless. Rhys is standing at the bar top, Freddy sitting on the stool on his furthest side. And there’s a magnificent smell permeating the air—bacon grease and maple syrup—all coming from the hulking goalie hunched over the stove with a towel over his shoulder.

Bennett looks over at me with a chin lift, not even a slight hint of a smile. Rhys tracks his friend’s movement, cutting himself off mid-sentence and smiling at me like we haven’t seen each other in weeks.

If I wasn’t already blushing, I’m full-on cherry red now.

So, I walk towards him, letting him play this because it’s his team and we haven’t talked about what exactly this is between us. All I know is that he’s never going to bejustmy friend—with or without benefits. He’s always going to be more.

He loops an arm around me, kissing the top of my head and continues his game-talk with the boys in the kitchen. He doesn’t stop talking, even as he lifts me to sit in the barstool in front of him and rests his arms on the counter, caging me in between them.

I listen, sort of, but perk up fully when a steaming plate of bacon strips, scrambled egg whites, avocado toast on expensive-looking sourdough and diced fruit lands in front of me.

“Oh, I don’t have to eat first.”

Rhys shakes his head. “We have a very specific set of pregame meals, Gray. That’s all yours.”

My mouth is watering even as I look up at Bennett. “Are you sure?”

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