Page 120 of Pucking Sweet

Shit, even hotels have alittlecharm.

I sigh again. “Dude, I’m sorry, but the vibes in here are wretched.”

“Told you,” he mutters.

“Well, you gotta decorate. You don’t even have a lamp for your bedside.”

“There’s a light in the ceiling, bud.” He points to the stationary ceiling fan.

“Yeah, but—okay, so it’s late at night and you’re tired, but you’re not ready to fall asleep. You come in here, turn on the light, then you get in bed and then youareready to sleep—”

“Why the fuck are you detailing the steps of going to sleep?”

“Well, because what do you do?” I press. “You’re tired, and you wanna sleep, but instead of rolling over like a normal fucking person and turning off the lamp, you have to getoutof bed and turn off the ceiling light?”

“No, I turn on the bathroom light.”

I blink at him. “Why do you turnonthe bathroom light?”

“Because it’s closer than going and turning off the ceiling light.”

“So, you sleep with the goddamn lights on?”

“No, I never turn that light on,” he says, pointing up at the ceiling fan again.

“It’s on now.”

“Yeah, ’cause I’m giving you a fucking tour,” he snaps. “I’m saying I only ever turn on the bathroom light, andthat’sthe light I turn off when I go to bed. Geez, what’s your problem?”

“Okay, let’s go.” I grab his arm, pulling him from the bedroom.

“Ouch. Where are we going?”

“Out. I’m not sitting in this empty house, eating pasta on my lap with my beer on the floor.”

“I told you I didn’t have any furniture—”

“Yeah, and we’re gonna fix that,” I say, leadingthe way down the stairs. We get to the kitchen and I swipe my wallet and keys off the counter.

“Where are we going?” he says again.

“Dinner and the game. We’ll find a sports bar or something. I just can’t sit in here. It’s freaking me out. And first thing Monday, we’re asking Poppy for the name of an interior decorator.”

The trouble with going out to watch the game is that a lot of the regulars in the sports bars around Jax Beach have started to recognize us. Don’t get me wrong, I love our fans. But there’s nothing worse than trying to watch pro hockey in a bar with people who know you also play.

Novy and I get a wild hair and end up driving down the A1A highway all the way to St. Augustine. The little downtown is lousy with bars and restaurants where you can grab a bite and watch a game in peace. We find our way onto a pair of barstools in the corner of a dark Irish pub. A big TV hangs right in front of us over the bar, so it’s like we’re in our own little world as we watch the game.

“Look at Norris.” Novy snorts into his beer, snagging a few French fries off my plate. “What a fucking fool.”

We both laugh as we watch the defenseman get circled on the ice, too slow to keep up with his mark. “He’s a total pylon,” I say.

“Right? Outta the way, 41!” he shouts at the screen. “God, how is he starting for them still?”

I shrug. “Bribes? Hand jobs?”

“Don’t tell me he’s the coach’s nephew.”

We snort again, watching for a few more minutes as Novy eats the rest of the fries off my plate. I glance over, taking in his profile in the glow of the wall of flashing TV screens. The bridge of his nose is bent from a previous break. I wouldn’t say I tend to notice the attractiveness of men, but he’s not bad looking.

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