Page 88 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
"Did I wake you?" I asked, guilt mingling with relief at hearing her voice.
"I was analyzing data," she said, and I could picture her exactly—hair piled messily on top of her head, glasses sliding down her nose, surrounded by papers organized in a system only she understood.
"You played like shit tonight," she continued matter-of-factly, and I barked out a surprised laugh.
"You watched?"
"Of course I watched. Your neutral zone coverage was sloppy, and you telegraphed that pass in the third period so clearly even I saw it coming."
My chest tightened with an emotion I couldn't name. "Since when are you a hockey analyst?"
"Since I started sleeping with a defenseman," she retorted. "I've been studying the game. Your systems are fascinating from a pattern-recognition perspective."
"God, I miss you," I blurted out, the words escaping before I could filter them.
Her breath caught audibly. "It's only been two days, Austin."
"I know. It's fucking pathetic."
"No," she said softly. "It's not. I reorganized the entire refrigerator today using your organizational system. I think I'm developing Stockholm syndrome."
I laughed again, feeling the tension in my shoulders begin to ease. "How's the research going?"
"Promising. The cultures are showing the inhibitory effect I hypothesized, though I'm still tweaking the enzymatic concentrations to maximize efficacy."
"No idea what that means, but it sounds impressive."
"It means I might be onto something big." Her voice dropped lower, intimate in a way that sent heat through my body. "What are you wearing right now?"
The abrupt change of topic caught me off guard. "Uh... team sweats. Why?"
"Take them off," she commanded.
"Kate Ellis, are you initiating phone sex?"
"I'm initiating a exploration of long-distance intimacy," she corrected primly. "Now are you going to participate in my research or not?"
I smiled in the darkness, already slipping my hand beneath my waistband. "You know I've always been fully committed to your scientific endeavors."
The next morning, I woke with renewed focus, Kate's voice still echoing in my head. Last night's conversation had left me both satisfied and hungry for more—a contradiction that perfectly embodied our relationship.
"Looking better today," Dennis commented during warm-ups, eyeing me skeptically. "Did the scientist prescribe some performance enhancers over the phone?"
“You’re one more chirp away from warm-ups turning full contact," I said, smirking.
"Must've been some call," he smirked, skating backward. "Your scowl's only at level three today. Practically cheerful."
On the ice that night, I channeled everything—frustration, desire, longing—into my game. Every check was sharper, every pass crisper. When I slammed an opposing forward into the boards so hard his helmet came loose, Coach actually cracked a smile.
We won 4-1. I tallied two assists and logged twenty-seven minutes of ice time.
"There's the Stone Callahan we know," Coach said afterward, clapping my shoulder. "Whatever adjustment you made, keep it up."
In the locker room, Dennis dropped onto the bench beside me as I unlaced my skates.
"So... are we going to talk about it?" he asked, his usual joking tone replaced with something more serious.
"About what?"
