Page 21 of Chips & Checks
Just mostly.
Like Knova, Cam knows me well enough not to ask for details. I mean, given that Bowen apparently opened his big, beautiful, betraying mouth to the entire team, he can probably guess what I’m thinking. But he doesn’t press. Doesn’t pry.
Just nods. “Of course, Vi.”
I spend most of the meal actively pretending Bowen doesn’t exist. It helps that Dad’s a talker—he keeps things rolling with a steady stream of hockey war stories and questionable jokes. Apparently, he and Bowen’s dad knew each other, which is just the cherry on top of my incestuous hockey sundae. So much for sleeping with someone outside the family tree.
If I were going to pop my hockey player cherry, couldn’t fate have at least dealt me an NHL guy from an opposing team?
When Dad finally lets the conversation taper off, Viktor jumps in to fill the silence. Bowen plays along. I eat my meal like it’s a timed competition and pray dessert shows up before my soul leaves my body.
The moment it’s socially acceptable, I rise. “Sorry, guys, I gotta run. Still have stuff to handle at the clinic.”
Technically true. Emotionally false.
Bowen stands, too. “I can walk you out.”
Nope. Not happening.
Cam intercepts him like the MVP he is. “Actually, I had a question for you, Murphy,” he says, casual and cool. “It’s important.”
I don’t hear what excuse Cam feeds him, but whatever it is, it works. As soon as Bowen turns his head, I bolt. Smoothly. Elegantly. With all the grace of a flaming shopping cart.
My face is on fire, but the water stain on my thighs is still icy. Perfect metaphor, really. Hot on the inside, cold and clammy on the outside. Just add sexual confusion and a sprinkle of regret.
Why can’t I have nice things? The one time I let myself have a little fun, it turns out my bedroom wizard is not only my coworker, but someone who will now exist forever in team meetings, injury reports, and possibly my nightmares.
How the hell am I supposed to work with him? What happened to my rules? To my professionalism?
All of that is a problem for another day. Tonight, I need Netflix, carbs, and emotional resuscitation.
Once outside, I slam my car door shut and let my head fall back against the seat. “One-night-stand-cum-coworker,” I mutter.
Ew. Cum.
Although, to be fair…
After the other night, the Latin is disturbingly accurate.
* * *
An hour later, I’m curled up on my couch in my softest pajamas, knees pulled to my chest, a mug of mint tea cooling in my hands. The chaos of the evening has mellowed just enough that I can almost laugh about it.
Almost.
I keep replaying it in my head like a blooper reel—spilled water, inner thigh patting, “your daughter?”—and I alternate between cringing so hard my soul leaves my body and wondering if that napkin is still damp in the Mona Lisa’s laundry room.
I tap my screen and start a video chat with Ash.
She answers in a fluffy robe with a green moisturizing mask on her face and a towel turban slightly askew. My bestie does not play around when it comes to skincare. “Hey, Vi. You look like a woman who’s either in love or just narrowly escaped prison.”
I lift my mug. “Would you believe me if I said a little bit of both?”
She hums. “You’re never this dramatic unless your uterus is involved. Spill it.”
“You are never going to guess who was at the team dinner tonight.”
She looks up, dramatic and thoughtful, like she’s consulting the spirits. “Um… Elvis?”
