Page 42 of Cherry Picking
A little uncertainty about my future can’t take that away.
CHAPTER 11
GRIFFIN
My mouth tasteslike piss and cotton balls. Fuck, I hate alcohol.
At the very least I know I didn’t make a complete ass of myself because Hawks forced me back to the room early last night. Not early enough to avoid the hangover but before I could go off the deep end.
Doesn’t make me feel any less like shit this morning.
That Chicago winger should have kept to his play on his side of the damn ice. Not up in my business finding ways to piss me off and get a shot through me. It’s a low tactic.
I roll over to reach for the ceremonious puke bowl Hawks is sure every player gets after a game because he knows we’re a bunch of man babies, but instead of the nightstand my hand smacks against the solid form of what is most definitely another person.
I know Duart didn’t crawl into my bed because for a sports guy he’s awfully space conscious.
Not a chance in hell did I pick up last night—I may have been missing Riley like mad but I didn’t black out and turn into a douche or anything.
Right?
I use every bit of my strength to open my eyes without puking and come face to face with deeply amused gray eyes and a familiar smile.
“Was starting to think you weren’t coming to, baby.”
Baby.
Despite my muscles and head protesting, I push up onto my arms and stare down at what is most definitely Riley Easton sprawled across my bed. He’s on his side with an arm tucked under his head watching me like this is the most natural, normal thing in the world.
And it is. Usually. When we’re on the road playing together.
But I left him nine hours away in our apartment with a banged up leg.
I lift the blanket and—yup—right there is his Ace-wrapped left leg, just chilling with the rest of them.
“Nash is going to have your ass,” are the first words out of my mouth, but his chuckle knocks me out of my surprise and into a blinding grin. “You motherfucker.”
Riley barks out a laugh as I collapse on top of him—careful of his injury—and grab his face for a tongue-heavy kiss. He obliges me for all of two seconds before easing me away and wrinkling his nose.
“Maybe we make-out after a morning shower and brush?”
I shove his shoulder, but his arms around my waist keep me flush against his chest. Which means I feel the way his morning wood presses into my hip.
“If you want to get rid of my hangover breath…” I drag a hand down the length of his body and shift my hips so I can wrap my fingers around his bulge. “I’ve got something else I can do with my mouth.”
He laughs hotly in my ear, but before I can wiggle my way down, he stops me with a hand between my shoulder blades andhis forehead resting on mine. “Later. I just want to see you. Hold you. I missed you, too, you know.”
The emotions from last night dredge up in my throat like thick sludge.
I told him I needed him, and here he is.
I told Riley I loved him, and he hasn’t said it back—but he didn’t turn away either.
“How long have you been here?”
“A couple of hours. Took us a little bit longer because I needed breaks to stretch my knee.”
“We?”
