Page 70 of The Stud

“There’s been a bit of a fuckup,” I continue while smacking on the last of the bite.

“You slept through your cotillion courses again?” Snowman’s chirping is accompanied by a finger point. “You have stolen gravy on your chin.”

I wipe it away with the back of my hand, give him the finger, and take a third piece. “For my pain and suffering.”

“Stratton would be shitting a fucking puck if someone had that much of his poutine,” mumbles Peck in amusement.

“I don’t have a room,” I disclose to the sweatpants wearing pair.

“How do you not have a bloody room?” investigates Snowman without missing. “Where did you sleep last night?”

“Sleep is a strong word.” Stuffing the rest of the dish into my mouth precedes me explaining. “The first room they gave me had no working toilet.”

“Yikes,” whispers Peck.

“So, they then moved me to another room, which it turns out, had no working heater-”

“It’s fucking thirty-five out!” Snowman defensively bites.

“You could get hyperthermia.”

“Hypothermia,” corrects the A wearing member of the team. “Right idea, wrong prefix.”

I do my best not to smirk.

He’s definitely more intelligent than he looks, which is something I hate myself for saying.

And knowing.

And adoring.

“I was supposed to have a new room by the time we got back from the game except they evidently ran out of rooms-”

“Who the hell runs out of rooms?!” Snowman gripes on my behalf.

“Right!” My fingers playfully strike his shoulder, becoming the first physical contact, we’ve had in weeks, a realization that seems to knock a bit of air out of us both. “They um…” clearing my throat is followed by me scooting closer toPeck to create appropriate distance, “offered to put me up at their sister hotel sixty blocks away-”

“Too far,” insists the dirty blond male, angling his frame towards mine.

“But it’s not worth the hassle especially in the snow.” I lock eyes with the still rather new to the league player. “Annnnyyyyyy chance you’d let me crash on your floor for the night?”

His mouth immediately lowers to reply yet releases no words as if suddenly paralyzed by pain.

Or unspoken proscription.

Stick taps to the last crossword I actually didwithSnowman.

Confusion crashes into concern convincing me to lean forward and cautiously call out, “Peck?”

One blink is all I receive prior to him frantically shaking his head. “Can’t.”

“Can’t…what?”

“Um…” his gaze fails not to cut his teammate a glimpse which prompts me to do the same only to see a feigned innocent expression floating on his face. “You um…can’t sleep on my floor.”

I glare at Snowman and send my attention back to Peck. “In the bathtub then? Technically, it’s a separate room.”

“Uh…” the glimpse is given yet again. “Not there either.”

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