Page 27 of Switching Skates
I’m in a hockey player’s room—that’s for sure. Probably one of the Mammoths players if I had to guess. But who? I don’t remember anything, and it’s starting to freak me out.
My eyes eagerly explore the room as I listen intently for any sound around me. But the room and house don’t make so much as a creaking noise.
From the clothes hanging in the closet and the dirty ones in the laundry basket, I can at least tell that whoever’s room this is, he is roughly organized. Aside from the messy desk.
Nothing explains how the hell I got here though.
A vibration on the nightstand grabs my attention, and I look down at it to see a phone, face down. Knowing this will probablyhold the most clues possible, I reach for it, pausing for a split second, contemplating if this is wrong or not.
But it can’t be more wrong than waking up in some random guy’s bed and not knowing how I got here.
So, screw it.
Flipping it over, I tap the screen, and my heart jumps into my throat.
Oh God, no.
Brock? Okay. Ross? Cute. Chet? Fine. But none of them own this phone. Why do I know that? Because a family photo of my best friend, her brother, and parents are centered on the screen.
There is nothing that he could’ve said last night to get me to go home with him. And if he drugged me to get me here, I’m going to fucking kill him.
Deciding that I’m done waiting for answers to come to me, I throw the comforter off of my legs and slide off of the tall bed, preparing to catch myself on the short fall down.
But my foot catches on something hard, and I tumble forward. Crashing to the carpet, I stop myself with my hands, my head whipping forward. I close my eyes to avoid my hair getting in them, but nothing happens.
I slowly open my eyes, one by one, and my stomach drops at the image of my hands and forearms.
My mind starts spinning. A thousand insane thoughts fight for the spotlight, none of them making any more sense than the last.
But how can they when the arms stretched out in front of me … aren’tmine?
Pushing myself to my feet, I realize I have a whole new problem because my head is nearly touching the ceiling—a much different point of view than I’m used to. And, oh God, I’m only wearing boxers.
My hands fly to my chest to cover my bare breasts, but my boobs are missing, replaced by firm pecs.
I’m having a stroke, or a mental break, or both.
Taking a quick breath, I exhale it slowly to try to calm my racing heart, giving myself strength for what I’m about to do.
Tilting my head down, I glance at my feet, barefoot and big.Not my feet. My gaze travels up my muscular legs, blond hair wrapped around them.Not my legs.
Stepping forward, I tighten my hold on my firm chest, trying to find any ounce of comfort as I tiptoe toward the mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door. With my gaze on the ground, I stop a few feet away from the life-changing mirror, shaking my—not my—hands out, hoping to ease my nerves.
You got this. You got this. You got this.
Expelling a heavy, even breath, I trail my eyes up the bottom of the door, over the lip of the mirror.
And then the world slips out from beneath my feet.
My eyes lock on the hazel ones of the man in the room looking right at me. But … but … the man is mimicking my movements and facial expressions.
The same long and toned legs that I remember ogling over, ripped torso, big arms, and an even bigger than I remember God. His shorts twitch at the same time a pulsing warmth shoots through my core. Nope. We’re ignoring that for as long as possible.
Lifting my hand up in front of my face, I wave it side to side, watching the reflection in the mirror that shouldn’t be there. That’s not my hand. That’s not my goddamn hand!
This can’t be real. This has to be a dream. It has to be.
I smack myself as hard as I can on the forehead. “Wake up! Wake up!”
