She’s too drunk for me to grill her, though that’s all I want to do. Drill into whatever she’s not telling or admitting about that head injury. I scan the rest of her, looking for any other signs of injury, but there’s nothing obvious.
“Pajamas?” She gives me a hopeful look.
“Tomorrow, you and I are having a discussion about you looking after yourself.”
She salutes me, and I just shake my head before going to the closet in the room. Before I left California, I swiped a brand-new practice jersey. I yank it off the hanger and approach her, the front of the dress still clutched in her fists.
“Arms up, doc,” I say.
She gives me a playful look before throwing her arms up, and the dress falls to the floor.
Keep your eyes on her face, Bishop.
Somehow I manage to maintain my eyes-up strategy as I tug the jersey over her head, and she slides her arms through. She swims in it, which makes it both a perfect nightshirt and the embodiment of every wet dream I’ve had since thirteen. I’ve never actually put any woman in my jersey before, and I’m really regretting doing it right now.
“You’re really this big?” She holds up her arms where the sleeves have engulfed her hands.
I swallow, tempted to tell her to hold that thought for another time when she’s sober. The chances of any of my dirty thoughts happening are pretty low, so I keep my flirty comment to myself. She probably wouldn’t remember anyway.
“Were you trying to hide your hotness under all that mess before?” She steps close to me, and she rubs my chin and then along my cheek with her thumb.
“I like it better when the attention’s on my hockey, not my appearance. Sponsors like it better when the attention’s on both.”
“Ah, so you did this makeover for money?” She drops her hand.
I consider letting her believe that, but her eyes are so glassy that her memory will be shit tomorrow. “I did it for you.” I could have gotten away with another few weeks of a messy appearance before the season kicks off and sponsors come knocking for promos.
Her gaze lights with delight, and a wide grin splits her face. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, almost returning her smile. She’s so fucking pretty it’s painful. “Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t tell you.”
Then her smile fades, and she peers at me carefully. “But, like, I don’t want you to change forme.”
“You’re safe. We barely know each other.” She’s said it with such intensity that I know there’s more to her comment. And my response is accurate, but I don’t know if it’s truthful. Today tilted things between us in an unexpected way, and I think Idoknow her, at least a little.
“You shouldn’t change who you are for someone else because then you stop knowing who you are at all.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. Trust me.” Her words are slightly slurred.
Rather than prying, which is what I really want to do, I say, “I’ll get you that toothbrush.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, and her already pink cheeks go bright red. “Do I smell like vomit?”
“A little.”
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” She covers her face with her hands. “My dad and Alex tell me to show you a good time, and I throw up in your car and then you have to look after me.”
That’s a loaded comment that I’m not touching. Having met her father, the “good time” comment could mean all sorts of things that I doubt I’d like. If he’s trying to pimp out Sawyer to keep me happy, I might actually murder him. Especially when Ava seemed eager to fulfill the playmate role without any obvious encouragement.
Even if I was into casual sex, Ava’s not my type.
“You didn’t throw up in the car,” I say before going into the en suite bathroom attached to the guest bedroom and digging around until I find a spare toothbrush still in its packaging. There’s a small travel-sized toothpaste, too, and I set both on the counter.
I’m not sure if Nathaniel left a lot of this shit behind, or if the team stocked the place with random essentials, but right now, I’m grateful. She really does smell a bit like vomit, and if I had a weak stomach, I’d be fucked.
While she brushes her teeth, I get her a glass of water, a Gatorade, and some aspirin and set up everything on the nightstand.
