Chapter Eighteen
Patch pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“Mmmmm.” She burrowed into the pillows with a disoriented smile. “You smell like coffee.”
“The best coffee.” He set a cup on her nightstand. “I made a Dunkin’ Donuts run.”
“You’re kidding.” Her eyes flew open as she sprang to sit, glancing around in confusion. “When?”
“While you were sleeping.” He smoothed back her hair. It did little to settle down the wild waves. She looked freshly fucked and he loved that he gave her that particular style.
“How long have I been sleeping?” She yawned. “It’s like I’ve been in a time warp.”
“You were out a solid couple hours. Snoring and everything.”
“You’re joking.”
He wasn’t. “It was cute.”
Her brows smashed together. “Snoring is never cute.”
He shrugged. “Is when you do it.”
“I’m going to need a gallon of this stuff.” She turned and resolutely grabbed the paper cup, taking a long sip. “Yum. Cream and sugar.”
“And a couple of maple cream donuts.” He set down the Dunkin’ box on the bed, opened the lid and peered inside. “Plus crumb cakes. Two Boston Crèmes, because of course. And the double-chocolate. My personal favorite.”
She leaned down, staring at the glut with amazement. “You can’t think we’ll eat all that.”
He scoffed. “What’s this aboutwe? That’s my order.”
This time it looked like her brows might just lift straight off her face.
He burst out laughing. “Kidding, babe. Obviously you can have one.”
“A regular comedian,” she muttered, reaching for a Boston Crème.
They cuddled beneath the covers, feeding each other sweet dough. In the end, they indeed cleaned the box, famished from their exertions.
“See this grin?” he said, glancing over. “I can’t kick it. ’Cause as good as it was to fuck you... this is even better, me, you, just hanging out—demolishing a dozen donuts in bed.”
“I’d offer to let you eat a donut while riding you,” she joked. “But on second thought, that might be a fetish that’s too weird, even for me.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” He took his time licking the frosting off her fingers. And it didn’t take long until he was licking her other places.
Everywhere.
The next week passed in a blur of hockey and Margot. Patch played a game at the home rink against Vegas. Luck ran out for Sin City’s season-long winning streak as the High Rollers were forced to give up three power play goals. Petrov scored two, one a chip shot from the side of the crease and another from the point. The defense worked together but Patch made the saves when they mattered, comfortable and well prepared.
As a team, they gelled again. The Hellions played clean, worked hard and smart, a lethal combo. But the real test was going to be the next game on Saturday night, when they went up against their biggest rivals, the San Francisco Renegades, a team who took no prisoners. The fans expected fights, and rarely went home disappointed.
Tomorrow Patch had negotiations with Guy Footscray, who wasn’t going to just be contented with money. He wanted to turn the tables, blame Patch for what he had done.
But for tonight, this moment, Patch wasn’t going to let that fucker bring him down. He’d done good. And had a hunch why.
“Hey. Coach Can I talk to you?” he said as they were going to the locker room. “In your office. After I’m cleaned up.”
“Sure, kid. See you there.”
