Page 1 of Stick Break
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Rip
Either that one beer was stronger than advertised, or Goldilocks had broken into the wrong damn fairy tale—and decided my bed was just right.
The wood floor creaks, as I take a measure step closer, and peer at the petite blonde hugging my pillow like it just whispered sweet nothing and promised her coffee in the morning. I lean forward, but with her back to me, I still can’t get a good view of her face.
Heck, maybe it’s not a real woman between my sheets. Maybe my buddy Gunter, or one my teammates thought it’d be hilarious to stash a blow-up doll in my bed while I sucked back some suds after exercising on the beach. But no, that theory doesn’t add up. Gunter is away on his honeymoon, and only he and his wife Paisley know I’m here at their cottage. Which mean, there really is a woman in my bed…and Jesus is that my sweatshirt she’s wearing.
I clear my throat. “Um, hello.”
“Fftlelle…”
I scratch my head as she mumbles something in her sleep and flops like a fish having an existential crisis, until she’s turned my way. That’s when I get a good look at her features—very familiar features. Sure her hair is shorter, and a different color, but it hardly makes her less recognizable. That pretty face of hers has been splashed all over the media for months now. First for winning The Spotlight and second…well, because of a leaked sex tape.
I inch closer, and shake my head. What the ever-loving fuck is reality tv singing star Indie Rhodes doing in Connecticut, in my buddy’s beachside cottage. Maybe the better question is, how the hell did she get in? I double checked the door before I went out to stretch my legs.
As I work to puzzle it out, I come to the realization that she’s not waking up anytime soon, so I back out of the room and pull my phone from my pocket. Should I call Gunter? Shit, I don’t want to bother them on their honeymoon. Besides, Paisley plays four instruments and writes symphonies, which means it’s possible that she knows goldilocks, and that they’d given her a key. But why would they offer the cottage to Indie, when they know I need to lay low, and keep out of the spotlight while I try to heal?
In the kitchen a warm breeze rushes in, and that’s when my gaze goes to the slightly opened window above the sink—a window that I’d also double checked. Ah, okay so my friends didn’t offer up the place at all, or give a key to anyone. It’s obvious that Goldilocks shimmied the window open and let herself in. I walk over to the counter, and it takes extra effort to tug the window shut. The damn thing must have been painted shut. Little blondie might be a might of a woman, but she clearly has grit and determination.
I turn back around, and that’s when I take stock of the empty bowl, dirty spoon and to the ripped open, single serving packet on the kitchen table. You’ve got the be fucking kidding me?
Okay, so not only did this woman break in, tug on one of my sweatshirts before falling asleep in my bed, she made herself a damn bowl of oatmeal—and left the dishes.
Fuck my life.
A tortured laugh crawls out of my throat as I pinch my eyes shut and will myself awake. I mean, I have to be sleeping right? Not only is this too crazy to be true, Goldilocks is a fairy tale and I don’t believe in fairy tales, or happily ever after. Although that fable didn’t really have a happy ending, and if I remember correctly, little bear was pretty pissed off.
I might not be little bear, and yeah, my nickname on the team is Big Bear, partly because of my size and partly because of the scraggly beard I grow during the playoffs, but I’m pissed too. I came here to heal in quiet. I can’t let anyone know that I tore my groin in our playoff game, and that if it doesn’t heal properly, it could be a career ending injury.
The last thing I need is a cute blonde—whose been drawing a ton of media attention—bringing unwanted cameras my way. I stalk back to the room, ready to wake her, and send her packing, but the second I do, and see the dark circles under her eyes as she sleeps, clutching the blankets like they’re her lifeline, my insides soften. That whole scandal has to be hard on her.
What if she too is here hiding from reality?
Shit, I can’t send her out in the dark. There might not be any vacant rentals and the hotel sign down the road has been flashing No Vacancy all week She stirs again and I go still. Honestly, if she wakes up now and sees a guy my size hovering over her, it’d scare her half to death, and I don’t want that.
I quietly leave the room again, and eye the sofa. It doesn’t pull out but it’s long, and comfortable enough for one night. In the closet I find a pillow and blanket and toss them onto the sofa. Should I do the dishes first? While I’d really like to, that could wake her, and I think our first meeting and our first conversation is best left for morning.
I tug off my shirt, and debate my pants. I’m not a fan of clothes at the best of time, hence the Ripley Stripley nickname the bunnies gave me. In this situation, however, I think it’s best to leave my pants on.
I fling myself onto the couch, where I’m forced to drape my legs over the armrest like I’m posing for a Renaissance painting. Nevertheless the position is perfect…for completely destroying what’s left of my groin. Eventually I contort into something that could pass as comfortable, and close my eyes. Sleep, however, is not a team player.
After a very restless night, the first rays of sunlight stab through the window and pull me awake. Groaning, I toss my cramped legs to the floor. Big mistake. Huge.
Not only is one of them dead, the other lights up with pins and needles like I accidently stepped on a porcupine. To top it off, I’ve planted myself directly in the sun’s death beam.
“Jesus,” I mutter, shielding my poor, innocent, eyeballs as the sun blinds me. I swear I can hear them sizzling. Bones cracking, I stumble to the kitchen, like a man three times my age.
Coffee.
Sweet, caffeinated salvation.
I mash buttons on the machine and when it begins to gurgle, I tiptoe toward the bedroom, praying goldilocks decided to vanish in the night the same way she appeared—magically and without explanation.
Nope.
Of course not.
