Page 14 of The Girl in the Hockey Jersey

His game isgood.

When he finally releases me, I roll up onto shaky legs and stumble to the minibar. If we’re doing this, let’sdo it. “Want another drink?”

He searches my face, then nods. “Whatever you want.”

I toss him a collection of the little bottles and he picks two. Holds out one. I down it, ignoring the burn.

That’s better. I think I need to stay on the wild and free side of tipsy if a stranger is going to use my vibrator on me.

When the knock at the door comes, I scurry into the bathroom and he answers it bare-chested, grinning like he’s won the freaking Stanley Cup.

* * *

“It’s two-thirty,” I whisper against his back.

He’s just rolled away to dispose of condom number three. His shirt is lying on the floor, and we’re both naked again.

“I’ll set an alarm for six.” Then he sprawls out on his back, totally comfortable taking up two-thirds of my queen bed.

I’m far too comfortable with him in it, too.

I shake my head. “Time for you to go.”

He stills. “You’re serious?”

My heart twists. I want him to stay all night. I want to sleep next to him, and squeeze every last second I can out of the Kieran Marsh Experience.

But I cannot have him discovered in my room. The room service delivery was risky enough. That was a drunken mistake. I can’t have a coach track him down with his phone or something like that, which probably isn’t likely, but sets my sobering-up nerves on fire.

“We have one more condom,” he says, and the hope in his voice—nope. I can’t get attached to that.

But maybe he can read my reluctancy, or maybe I misread what I thought was something more cajoling, because he shrugs. “All right.” He catches my hand and holds my gaze as he kisses the inside of my wrist. “Thanks for a fun night, Jersey Girl.”

I shiver at the soft contact. “Thank you for talking your way into buying me a drink.”

He releases my hand and pulls on his boxers, then his pants. His socks and shoes are next, and with each piece of the polished pro player sliding back into place, the distance between what we just did and reality gets greater and greater.

By the time he’s buttoning up his shirt—that smells like me, and sex—I’m regretting that I didn’t gethimto wear the jersey for a little bit.

He’ll carry a piece of me out of here tonight, and I’ll be left with memories so surreal they’ll only live on as impossible fantasies.

I pull on the jersey to see him to the door, my heart a lump in my throat.

We both lean into the closet at the same time. He stops, I stop, then I bend over again. He groans as the jersey rides up my thighs, baring the curve of my ass.

“Here,” I whisper as I hand him overcoat and toque.

He takes them, his fingers wrapping around mine. He takes them and holds on tight, to both me and the coat and hat.

“You’ll look me up.” It’s a statement. A command.

I won’t, though. If things were different…

“Thank you,” I repeat. It’s all I can say. “For tonight.”

“God damn it.” He reaches for me, then stops himself. Wrenches the door open and steps onto the threshold.

I stumble at the sudden loss of him in front of me and he catches me by the arms, pressing me gently against the doorframe. We both stop breathing. The safe cocoon of my room has been stripped away. At any second, someone could come down the hall and see him leaving the room of a half-naked woman wearing his jersey.

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