“Yeah. I know. And we won,” I reply tersely, and then steady my voice to seem calm and rational. “I suggested Parsons be put in the shoot-out over Echolls.”
Don blinks his hazel eyes. His jaw goes slack for a second, then tightens again. “Did the coach ask your opinion?”
“No.”
“Holy fuck, Avery.” Don swears a lot. I used to appreciate it because I wasn’t allowed to and he’d always pick the right things to curse about. But not now. “You’re pulling diva shit now?”
“I just wanted a fucking win. We haven’t beaten the Winterhawks all damn season,” I retort, and his eyes dart around the room to make sure it’s still empty.
“You don’t get to talk like that. And you don’t get to be a fucking diva. Nobody buys products from a diva.”
Here we go with the endorsements again. “Okay. I get it. I fixed it. I need you to let this go. What the hell are you doing here anyway? I didn’t have your visit on my agenda.”
“Stop with your mouth,” he snaps, referring to thehell,fuckanddamnI’ve dropped. “You are clearly going down some kind of path that isn’t the planned route, so I came here to get you back on track.”
“What the…” I pause, run a hand through my sweaty hair and rephrase before I drop another f-bomb. “What are you talking about?”
“Living in that condemned cottage, dumping your girlfriend, redesigning your clothing line, starting brawls with your own team and”—he pauses to lower his voice—“messing around with some player’s sister.”
“How do you know?” I demand, awe overtaking the anger in my tone.
“You said she’s an old friend,” Don explains with a huff. “Your only old friends in San Diego are Larue and your neighbor, Deveau’s sister. I made an educated guess.”
Oh, my God, he seriously flew across the country for this? Actually, to a different country? I inhale and hold it for a long minute, gathering my thoughts. “Her name is Stephanie and, yeah, she was averygood friend before things developed. I hear that’s a good way to start a solid relationship.”
“Lizzie was a good way to start a solid relationship.”
That’s a weird statement. I guess the way I met Lizzie, at a family friend’s barbeque, was good. And then I kept running into her at places like the farmer’s market or the gym. But I just never felt I knew Lizzie the way I know Steph. “I don’t have a connection with Lizzie the way I have with Steph.”
Don makes a face at that. “Is the connection in your pants or in your head?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that, Don,” I reply in a deathly serious tone. He backs off right away, which is a good thing for him.
A couple of the guys come in and hop on the bikes. Good. I am so done with this conversation. Don sighs and scratches his nearly bald head. “I suppose you have plans with this girl after the game?”
“I do.”
“I’m staying at the Palomar,” he says. It doesn’t surprise me. Even in Seattle where I had a four-bedroom house, Don didn’t stay with me. He likes his space and I’ve learned to like mine. “I’m here for at least two days. I’ll call you tomorrow to arrange a meeting. We have more to discuss.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I just don’t feel like arguing anymore. He wants to talk, we’ll talk, but just like my decision to play in San Diego over L.A. or New York, he won’t be changing my mind—about the revamped clothing line, where I live and especially not about Stephanie.
We shake hands, like a manager and an athlete would do, and I head back into the locker room to shower. I notice the medical room door is open and Beau isn’t inside. I should track him down, but I just want to shower and change so I can find Stephanie.
Chapter 25
Stephanie
My legs are aching and my feet hurt, but I keep jogging because the pain is helping me forget all the stuff in my head that’s making me hurt in a different way. After the game last night, I waited in the family lounge for Avery, but my brother showed up first. When Avery showed up, we all went out for a late bite to eat.
I didn’t get alone time with Avery until we got home. And after two hours of sitting next to each other and acting platonic, he was apparently more than ready to drop the charade. He spent the drive home, after Sebastian hopped in a cab back to his team’s hotel, with one hand on the wheel and the other sliding higher and higher on my thigh. He was kissing me before we got up the front porch and we never even made it to the bedroom. We had sex until we passed out on his living room couch.
When I woke up at six, I decided to go for a run and clear my head and figure out exactly what I was going to ask him about that damn social media account. Besides, I knew if I was still in bed when Avery woke up, he’d be inside me again before I got a word out. Because he would want it and I would too.
Sex with Avery is more addictive than any narcotic, and I’ve tried more narcotics than I want to admit. It’s slightly terrifying. I promised myself I would never be addicted to anything ever again, but I never realized I could be addicted to the feel of someone between my legs.
I crave Avery.
I’m passing the Coronado Hotel, trying to focus on the burn in my legs and the sound of the waves crashing beside me when I feel hands touch my hips from behind. I spin, arm raised, hand in a fist, and am greeted by familiar, but shocked, caramel eyes. I drop my arm.
