I still hurry to make it to the guest room.
Nicko, December 20th
The next morning, I wake from a wild dream about my unsigned contract with the Rebels. My shirt is sticking to my skin from the effort it took to chase after the documents in my sleep. Every time I held the papers in my hand, management would rip them away, urging me to get another knee surgery first.
I groan and rub a hand over my face, trying to wipe the nightmare away. Apparently, not even fucking my rival can put a stop to these worries.
Which, honestly, is something I shouldn’t spend a thought on before breakfast. I do wonder, however, if Hart has regular contact with the team; maybe even received a draft of his contract already. Not that I could bring myself to ask about it. It’s bad enough that I sucked him off in the locker room, he doesn’t need another thing to hold over my head.
I try and fail to find my way back to sleep, restlessly rolling from one side to the other while yesterday’s events replay in my mind.
Dinner would have been an awkward affair if Nate hadn’t entertained us with his observations from the ER.
I don’t have a good excuse for what happened last night. My intoxication and Hart’s confusion about my identity made it easy enough to explain away the kiss, just like rage caused us to snap in the locker room. But there was no logical reason for me to sprint back from the neighbors’ so I could maul Hart in the hallway.
Maybe we really just need to get this out of our systems, like walking out a kink in a cramping muscle. It’s just…when I think back on the way my dick slipped in and out of his taunt ass, I realize I might have a lot more walking to do in order to get rid of this one specific kink.
It’s still dark outside when I finally give up and crawl out of bed. Pulling a hockey hoodie over my head, I decide to move to the downstairs couch for some low-quality TV entertainment.
As soon as I step into the hallway, soft clattering catches my attention. Following the sound, I take a detour to the kitchen.
I blink several times, rubbing a hand over my eyes, but the picture in front of me doesn’t change.
Hart is standing in the middle of the room, wearing high socks with his knee-length sweatpants. Black strands of hair stick up in every direction while he frowns at our stove. Pans and pots in different sizes are piled on the counters around him, and a large carton of eggs sits out in the open.
“You have to tap it,” I tell him when I realize he’s trying to turn on the stovetop. It’s an induction cooking stove similar to the one we had in the Netherlands, because the gas ones freak dad out.
Hart jumps at the sound of my rough voice, one hand flying to his chest.
“Shit, Nicko,” he curses softly.
“Maybe I’m Nate.” It was meant to tease, but there’s a sharp undertone I didn’t aim for.
Hart raises a single brow at me, then points at my B-Tech hoodie.
I snort. “Fair enough.”
“I can tell you apart without it, too, you know,” he informs me, a deep frown etched into his forehead.
“Yeah, because we’re not trying to confuse you anymore.” I try to keep my voice light as I step up to him and tap the stove to turn on the plate.
I know I shouldn’t remind him of the switch when we just started to barely tolerate each other, but I can’t help myself—it’s like having to touch a hot plate with the full awareness of getting burned.
“Is that something you do often? Switch places? Fuck with people’s minds?”
I know this is not the actual question he’s wanting to ask, so I give myself time to answer. I turn on the coffee machine, a monstrosity that only makes one cup at a time, so it takes forever to serve a group of guests.
The unexpected noise of grinding beans has Hart wincing.
“Dad doesn’t believe in coffee-to-go. He thinks it’s too expensive.”
Hart just nods as he regards me quietly, arms crossed over his chest. By now the hotplate turned off again from lack of usage.
“We haven’t switched since starting college,” I finally answer his original question with an eye-roll. “So you don’t need to worry your pretty head about accidentally having been nice to me before.”
Hart’s shoulders slump instantly, his jaw visibly unclenching when he takes the information in.
“I don’t– That’s not…I mean, why do it in the first place?” he sighs, throwing his hands up.
