Page 23 of Full Tilt
Without responding, I head to my phone and pick it up.
“You can input the details yourself if you can make out the screen.” I hand my cell to her, and for a brief moment, her eyes soften, guilt flashing through them as she takes in the large crack straight down the center.
She begins entering her contact details. “After delivery, I want this to be deleted.”
“Why?” I ask, watching her type out a cell number.
She finishes up her zip code and passes my mangled phone back. “Because I don’t trust you and I don’t like you. Not one bit.”
“But you’d still let me buy you leggings? That seems a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
When she presses her finger into the center of my bare chest, her eyes drop to the scissors and thread inked over my heart. “Incase you weren’t listening earlier, you owe me at least two pairs due to the dinner you slid into my lap. The other pairs are to make up for you generally being an asshole.”
“So, we’re even?” I ask.
Jenna twists her lips to the side. “I’m willing to drop our feud if you can promise to leave me alone and delete my deets.”
Unable to stop myself, I lean over her again. Our lips are almost touching, but not nearly close enough. “Deal,” I whisper. “I don’t keep women’s contact details on my phone. They contact me.”
She looks doubtful. “Aside from your mommy’s?”
I can smell her vanilla perfume, reminding me of the time she turned down my offer to have fun.
Once bitten, twice shy.
“Maybe I do have my mom’s details saved; maybe I don’t,” I muse. “Not that it’s any of your business, Hellion. I don’t divulge details about my family to assholes.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
JENNA
Ihad such high hopes for this hookup.
Not in terms of being my happily ever after because—let’s be honest—that’s not in the cards for me. My hopes were more centered around orgasms and this guy’s confidence that he could deliver them.
But here’s the thing: despite what my mom always told me, I don’t see sex as a sacred act I should only share with that one special person in my life. If I did, then I’d still be a virgin at twenty-seven, and no one wants that.
And while I’m not expecting fireworks to explode in the night sky behind us, I would like to at least bury my face in the duvet, preventing any neighbors from overhearing my rip-roaring high. If Mr. Right isn’t out there for me, then the rest can at least bring the goods in his absence. The trouble with one-night stands is, they’re rarely exciting, mostly awkward, and the more of them I have, the clearer that harsh reality is becoming.
Trying not to wake the guy whose name I can’t recall—even though he promised me I’d be screaming it nonstop last night—I slowly peel out of his bed and grab my bag and clothes, which I slung over the end of the frame, and make my escape.
After our major win last night, we have three more games before the end of the regular season wraps up in November. Keeping a clean sheet against our rivals, Pittsburg, was fundamental in our pursuit to lift the shield this season—something our club has never done and sits right at the top of my career bucket list.
With that in mind, along with our four to zero win, I figured I’d stay out with a couple of my single teammates—since the vast majority of the team has partners and families to return home to—and celebrate my best performance of the season so far.
When will you learn that when it comes to their talents in bed, men are liars, Jenna?
As I speed through my hookup’s living room, pulling on my jeans and sweatshirt as I go, I catch a glimpse of myself in the ridiculously large mirror he has hanging above the side table next to his front door.
I look like shit and deserve to be hungover even though I was as sober as a judge the entire night. With hair sticking out of my day-old ponytail, a smudge of mascara under one eye, and a stain right in the center of my sky-blue top, any semblance of guilt for leaving yet another guy to wake up alone soon diminishes.
No one can see me like this.
Thankfully, my knee-high boots are right by the front door and not in the bedroom, and I slip them on and slowly do up the zips.
Sliding the dead bolt, I carefully twist the lock and pull the door open, checking to make sure I haven’t left anything behind when my cell starts ringing, and I quickly hit Accept on Holt’s call, closing the front door gently.
“Talk about timing,” I whisper-hiss.
