"He's here."
"Who?" she asks, confused.
"London guy. The man that gave me the best orgasms of my life."
Silence.
"Wait, what? London guy is in New York?" Polly asks.
"Yes. In my fricken home. With my brothers." I try to take deep breaths, stemming my panic attack.
"Back it up a minute. What do you mean he's in your home? Is he stalking you?"
"I wish. It's worse."
"Worse than stalking?" she asks.
"Yes. He's a hockey player."
Silence again.
"Oh shit." Polly realizes what I mean. "No." She gasps. "Please don't tell me he plays with your brothers."
"He's their fricken captain."
Polly screams and then bursts out laughing.
"It's not funny."
"It's kind of funny." She chuckles.
"He also lives down the hall from me."
"What! He lives in the same complex?"
"The same level," I add.
Polly bursts out laughing again. "It's fate."
"This is not fate. It's fricken karma for something I did," I grumble.
"Wish karma would deliver me a hockey player," she teases.
"Not this one. His name is Emmett Black. He's six-five, has a scruffy beard, and muscles for days. And I'm going to see him every single day for the rest of my career at the Mavericks."
"Oh my god, it is him. I just looked him up. He looks hot in his hockey uniform," Polly adds.
"They all do." I sigh. I think about the Henley stretching across his chest, the way his jeans fit, that stubbly beard. "My home is full of hockey players at the moment. It's suffocating."
"That sounds like heaven." Polly chuckles.
"It's not."
"So did you speak to him?"
I sigh. "I did."
"And?"
