Page 70 of Triple Pucked
The Bay Rebels have lost.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Freedom Mansion
Robyn
D’Angelo leansover Shay on the bed. His tie runs across Shay’s powerful naked chest like a snake. He firmly grasps Shay’s right wrist in his and pulls it above Shay’s head. “Does this hurt, cucciolo?”
Shay is unusually subdued. “I told you. I’m fine.”
That would be more convincing if he wasn’t covered in purple bruises over his swollen left shoulder and hip.
The colors are stark against his ice-white skin.
The Bay Rebels lost the game last night.
What had made me almost smash through the glass like a tiny, red haired Incredible Hulk had been the fear that Shay had also lost his hockey career in the same way that his brother had.
Adrenaline spiked through me. My heart hammered in my chest.
When some asshole threw the butt plug onto the ice (and wouldn’t that be a career ending accident that would be remembered for all the wrong reasons?), and Shay crashed into the boards, Eden jolted like he’d been shot.
Luckily, Shay was able to hold onto enough control to protect his head. Yet his shoulder and hip could have been seriously injured since they took the brunt of the hit.
I can smell the delicious scent of bacon sizzling downstairs, mixing with freshly brewed coffee.
I am relieved that Eden is keeping himself busy making breakfast.
I can always rely on Eden’s desire to feed us to take his mind off problems.
Also, bacon sandwiches are a plus in any circumstance.
Happy stomach, happy mind.
I lie next to Shay on the four-poster bed in our bedroom. I push the rumpled silver sheets off myself, twisting the hem of Eden’sKIT-TEAt-shirt between my fingers. Eden’s t-shirt is my favorite thing to sleep in. I take a deep breath of Eden’s sweet vanilla scent to calm myself.
Pale morning light streams over the bedroom from the arched windows and skylights.
D’Angelo’s eyes darken, as his gaze slides from Shay’s right wrist to the bruises down the left-hand side of his body.
D’Angelo is dressed in a pinstriped suit and waistcoat. His expression is cool and assessing.
Shay squirms. “Both Code and Mike checked me over last night. It’s only bruises.”
“Only?” I splutter. “You look like you’ve been dipped in ink. Talking of ink, why have you been writing on your…?”
Shay snaps his legs together, hiding the smudged ink that I’d caught sight of on his inner thigh.
Shay’s cheeks flush. “Haven’t you ever written notes on yourself?”
“Usually,” D’Angelo drawls, “people write on the back of their hand. I once cheated on an exam that way. Aren’t I a bad boy? What I didn’t do is write the answers on my inner thigh and shove my pants down in the middle of the exam to peer at them.”
“Surprisingly,” I mutter, “since you waltzed around college naked half the time.”
Shay’s lips quirk. “That’s why between us, I’m the rebel.”
“I’m putting more arnica on you.” I scramble to the nightstand, before snatching up the tube of arnica cream for bruises and waving it at him like a threat.
