Page 81 of Playing for the Hat Trick
He continues like he didn’t just threaten my sanity, working the shampoo into my scalp like I’m not teetering on the edge of another orgasm from hair care alone. He rinses, conditions, and even combs through with his fingers, then kisses my shoulder as he shuts off the water.
I make a sound. Betrayal. Maybe mourning.
He ignores it.
The towel he wraps me in is warm. Like he heated it on a radiator or summoned it from a spa. He tucks it around me with this maddening precision, double-checking the knot like it might come undone and ruin the dignity I barely have left. Then he grabs another towel and drops it over my head, fingers ruffling through my hair like I’m something soft and breakable.
“Sit,” he says, patting the edge of the counter.
I squint at him. “Is this when you feed me grapes and brush my hair a hundred times like I’m Rapunzel?”
“No. This is when I towel-dry your hair and pretend I don’t want to bend you over the sink again.”
I hop onto the counter. With effort.
He steps between my legs, the towel moving over my scalp in gentle circles. The room is humid, quiet, thick with something I don’t want to name. His bare chest brushes my knees. His focus stays on my hair like it’s a fucking masterpiece.
“This part win me the Boyfriend of the Year trophy?” he asks, faux-casual.
I snort. “You think that’s up for grabs?”
“I’ve already got your vote. That orgasm where you whimpered like a Disney princess locked it down.”
“You’re the worst,” I mutter, slapping his hip.
“You argued when I said I’d shampoo you,” he counters, smug as hell. “You’ve officially kinked your brain.”
My cheeks go nuclear. I glare at the tile. “I’m not a rescue kitten.”
His hands still. The towel drapes over my head, warm and soft and blinding.
“I know you’re not,” he says, voice low. Not sexy-low. Real-low. “I’m not doing this because you need me to. I’m doing it because I like taking care of you.”
I don’t respond.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because my heart’s suddenly thudding like it wants to write a sonnet.
He gently pulls the towel off, sets it aside, then cups the back of my head and kisses my forehead like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like kissing me there means something. Like it always meant something.
By the time he disappears into the bedroom, I’m still sitting on the counter, blinking at my reflection like,Who even are you right now?
He comes back a beat later, holding out a T-shirt that’s clearly survived some shit. It’s vintage-soft, faded black, the Vancouver Mammoths logo half-flaking off the sleeve like it’s been through several laundry mishaps and possibly a breakup or two.
It smells like him—soap, skin, and a hint of arrogance. Like if smugness had a cologne.
He holds it out between us like a peace offering wrapped in threadbare affection.
“This one’s my favorite,” he says. “Wear it. Smell like me. Then ghost me tomorrow so I can spiral dramatically and send you angsty texts from my bathtub.”
I glare. “I’m not the one who ghosts after sex.”
He squints, like I just accused him of murder. “What do you mean by that? I’ve never ghosted anyone.”
“Oh, really?” My voice tilts toward amused disbelief. “You never leave without saying goodbye or leaving a note?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he says too quickly.
