Page 67 of Play the Game

TV is in my room.

Oh.

But that cat better not be caught dead in my bed, Rogue.

I slowly stand with Shutter in my arms and head for the stairs. Another text pops up.

Stop right where you are and put him outside.

My feet freeze dead center on the first stair. I turn slowly and shift my attention around the living room again. Emory is either highly attentive and knows me much better than I think, or he’s being a complete stalker and watching me.

Although, can he really be considered a stalker if it’s his house?

Are you watching me?

You’re the one who told me to get cameras, remember?

That’s right. I did. But that was before I thought he’d be watching me!

Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to know about while you’re in my bed.

Heat trickles down my spine at the thought.

You’re so cocky that you think I’d actually be turned on from just being in your bed? ??

I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.

His response irritates me so much that Imightdo something in his bed just to spite him.

Thirty

EMORY

“Well,your little hockey groupie was right. Number eleven tore us to pieces.”

I turn around and glare at Kane. “Hockeygroupie?”

“I’m sorry. I mean yourwife.” He rolls his eyes, and my ears burn.

I can’t blame him for being angry and not choosing his words wisely, because that’s how we all get when we lose, but if he ever calls Scottie a groupie again, I might snap his hockey stick in two and shove it down his throat. Kane is a punk with a temper, and if I wasn’t trying to fix my reputation, I wouldn’t let this one slide.

All it takes is one look from me to know he’s overstepped, especially in front of the rest of the team. He turns his back, and we all silently undress, waiting for Coach Jacobs to come into the locker room and roar about how disappointed he is in the sloppy plays that were executed. That’s what makes being a goalie so difficult. My teammates practically play a completely different game than I do.

I’m in between the pipes, blocking shots with every ounce of determination I have while they fuck up on the ice over and over again, allowing thirty pucks to fly at my face. I can’t do a thingabout it either, other than weave and block until they get their shit together.

It’s always easy to blame the one letting shots get through, and my ego isn’tthatbig—except according to Scottie—to think I’ve never fucked up a game from not doing my best at blocking, but everyone in this locker room knows that this loss had nothing to do with me and everything to do with their miscommunication.

I’m prepared for a fight to break out with the tension filling up the locker room. Rhodes and I make eye contact. We’re both ready to step in if necessary, but I’m hoping that everyone can keep their shit together so we can climb onto the bus and head to the plane before it gets too late.

There’s nowhere like home, even if I’m sharing it with a little blonde-haired devil.

My bed is calling my name, and I better not find fucking cat hair in it.

When Coach finally makes his presence known, he just stands in the middle of the locker room, puts his hands on his hips, and shakes his head—which is honestly worse. I don’t know if he was expecting some backtalk or choice words between his players like in the past, but the team stays silent. Most of them bounce their steely gazes to Rhodes and then to me. When neither of us say or do anything, they take that as their cue to stay silent too.

Nothing is said until we get onto the plane.

As captain, Rhodes feels obligated to say a few gruff words that hover between anger and encouragement, but that's it.

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