Page 162 of Wrong Pucking Player

“Morning, Muffin,” I greet the kitten as she purrs happily before leaving me to find something intriguing.

Something to knock over, obviously.

It takes me a bit to reorient myself.

What happened?

Even with Muffin here, I’m not sure if I’m in my place or Armani’s. My mind feels like it’s extra sluggish today. Almost as if I’ve been sleeping for eons and only now woke up from a lengthy slumber.

I don’t rush to put the pieces together that confirm how I landed myself in this comfy bed, but the familiar scent of musky cologne with hints of pine, sage, and wood makes me think Armani is nearby.

Or in the same bed as me.

He’s the reason why I feel so at peace.

I’m in a back embrace, and his massive arm of muscle is draped over my waist while my back is snugged against his chiseled front side.

I can tell I’m not naked. In fact, I’m wearing his jersey. From the scent of it, I don’t think it’s what I was originally wearing when I ended up here—which I’ll now assume is Oscar’s place. If it was, I’d surely catch a whiff of the rainwater that completely drenched me prior to getting here.

Instead, it smells like a mix of lavender fabric softener and Febreze. An interesting combination that reminds me of being huddled in a blanket that’s just been washed.

I’m wearing underwear and shorts from the feel of it, and the jersey seems to be the only thing covering my top side, which I’m rather grateful for.

Who wants to wake up wearing a bra or the agony of boob sweat thanks to layers of clothes? No, thank you.

I’m curious to see Oscar’s face, encouraging me to shift my position until I’m facing him.

Fuck…

I’m rendered speechless because… wow.

Oscar Armani looks like a carved god in bed.

I’m sure if I told him that, his ego would soar through the roof, so I make a mental note to keep that fine detail to myself, but seriously.

Pincer Blade’s goalie is fine China on steroids.

I have a strong feeling, unlike the douches in our building and at the gym flexing their fake muscles they got by steroids, that Armani gained his muscles by blood, sweat, and tears.

Though, I can’t imagine Armani actually crying.

I’d love to see him work out at the gym or at least do a few deadlifts.

I wonder if I can beat him in deadlifts?

If he knew I used to do powerlifting, I wonder if it would be a turn-off.

Many people didn’t know about that part of me. To be fair, not many knew about me, to begin with. Wyatt barely scratched the surface, and with Mikayla, she knew everything I was willing to share with her throughout our years of friendship.

Very few know the real me.

The things I actually enjoy doing.

Reaching out to gently run the back of my hand against his cheek, I admire the close-up view of his face and how handsome Armani is. I never really noticed the little things.

The little ingrown hairs of his stubble or the tiny scar on his right eyebrow. How his nose is a bit more pointed, and how his lips are a darker pink.

All this feels sacred in its own unique way.

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