Page 59 of The Score

“Not in the slightest,” I answer cheerfully. I take the tissue from her hand and toss it over the side of the bed. Then I rearrange my body so my head is on the pillow instead of the mattress and tug her toward me.

Allie nestles all that naked goodness beside me and rests her head on my shoulder. “Endless supply of wishes,” she mumbles.

“Huh?”

“Your dick.” She sighs. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

“Damn right it is. I told you I’ve got a great cock.”

I grin up at the ceiling and stroke her side boob. We lie there in silence for a bit, both of us still catching our breath. Eventually she murmurs, “So what’s this kiddie game you mentioned?”

It takes a second to figure out what she’s talking about. “Oh. The Hurricanes. My new defensive coordinator is forcing me to volunteer at the elementary school, so I’m helping out as assistant coach of the hockey team.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…it is. Fun, I mean.”

And tonight’s game was a lot more exciting than I’d anticipated. The Hurricanes faced off with the team that’s leading their division, and every kid on the ice tonight played at a level that impressed me. Oh, and the winning goal was a wrist shot courtesy of Robbie Olsen. Damned if my chest didn’t overflow with pride.

“I volunteered at a drama camp every summer when I was in high school,” Allie tells me. “I always had a blast, and I was so bummed when the camp shut down. They held it at this old theater in Brooklyn, but the area was rezoned, so the city tore it down and now it’s a computer store.” She sits abruptly. “Oh crap. I forgot to do something.”

Her body drapes over my chest as she leans toward the nightstand. I can’t resist capturing one nipple in my mouth and suckling on it. The tight bud feels so fucking good on my tongue. I suck harder, and Allie shivers before batting my head away. “Hold that thought. I don’t want to forget this again.”

She grabs her phone, and I see her pulling up a reminder app. She types something. From my vantage point, it appears to be “train ticket.”

“Train ticket?”

“Yes, Mr. Nosy.” She sets the phone down. “I’m reminding myself to book my ticket to New York. I need to do it way in advance this time because it gets really busy on Thanksgiving. Last year I ended up having to take a later train that didn’t get in until four in the morning.”

“You spending Thanksgiving with your parents?”

She stretches out beside me again. “Just my dad.” She pauses. “My mom passed away.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.” I stroke my palm along her bare arm. Then I note how weird it is to be lying in bed with her, just talking. But I’m still limp from our trip to the bone zone. The Jaws of Life couldn’t pry me off this bed right now. “Are you close with your dad?” I ask.

Her head lightly bumps my shoulder as she nods. “Very close. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”

“What does he do?” I’m not sure why I’m asking all these questions. It’s not a habit of mine to try to get to know the chicks I’m sleeping with. But Allie is different. She’s Wellsy’s best friend, for starters. And it doesn’t feel right to wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am her.

“He was a scout for the Bruins,” she reveals.

“No shit?” I’m highly impressed. “He must know his hockey, then. Did he play?”

“In college. He was drafted by the Kings, but he tore his ACL during training camp so his career kind of ended before it even began. I think he was relieved, though. He always says he was better at finding the talent than being the talent.”

“Still, that’s a tough job,” I point out. “He must have been traveling all the frickin’ time.”

“He was. That part sucked, how often he was away. But Mom and I coped. After she died, Dad would take me with him when he could, but most of the time I stayed with my aunt in Queens.”

“Is he retired now?”

She stiffens slightly. “Yeah. He is.” Anotherpause. “So what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Where are you from again? Connecticut?”

“Yup. Greenwich. And Manhattan. My family split our time between the two, but I went to high school in Connecticut.”

“Prep school,” she corrects.

I tweak her hair. “Still considered high school.”

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