Page 42 of The Offside Rule
The elevator then stopped on my parents’ floor.
“Good night, Nate.”
“Night Dr. Davis,” he called out.
I didn’t have it in me to correct him again. I was more focused on how highly inconvenient it was that I was living with my parents right now. What I wanted was a vibrator session. Mom was in the kitchen making tea when I walked in.
“Oh, Mom, hi,” I said. I felt like a teenager trying to hide the fact that I had been drinking. “Rough night at the hospital?”
“No, we had three easy births.” She grinned, then her gaze zeroed in on me. “Are you drunk?”
“I’m not a teenager. I had a few drinks with the girls,” I admitted.
“I miss those days,” Mom said with a far-off look. She had me at twenty-two, which meant she had to become responsible early.
“You can still go out drinking the next time Rebel comes to town. Even Paris would be happy to have a girls’ night out,” I suggested.
“Yeah, maybe. That isn’t a bad idea,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Yup. Why do you ask?” I was swaying.
“I don’t know. You seem tense,” she observed. Damn, she knew me well.
“All good,” I assured her.
“I’m going to bed.” I pointed at my bedroom.
She smiled like she thought my inebriated state was cute.
“G’night, CC,” she said.
“Night, Mom.”
I walked off and went to my room to sleep. What I needed was my own apartment or at least space. It was hard to move back home after living on my own for so long. It was also hard not to think of Hunter as I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 8
Hunter
I woke up at six thirty with a dry mouth, a dull headache, and a deep hatred for Max McGuire. I didn’t even drink that much. That was the embarrassing part. One beer would’ve been fine. Two would’ve been fine if I had eaten enough. But Max had convinced me to have bourbon because apparently he thought we were living in a country song, and I, like an idiot, listened to him. Now my head felt like it had been used as a puck in warm-ups, and my stomach was making it very clear that I was no longer twenty-one.
I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about last night. But the second my brain came online, there she was. Catherine in that black dress. Catherine in the elevator looking up at me with those green eyes, tipsy and bold and honest in a way that almost killed me.I just want you to fuck me.I groaned and dragged a hand over my face.
“Dammit,” I muttered.
I had almost lost my mind in that elevator. No, scratch that. I had lost it. Just not all the way. The drinks had burned off a level of control I usually kept locked down tight. Sober me knewhow to step back. Sober me remembered Cole. Holland. Isla. The team. Catherine’s elective. Every single reason this was a bad idea. Drunk me still knew those reasons, but I cared a lot less when Catherine’s hand was on my chest and her mouth was soft and shiny from whatever gloss she wore. I had wanted to take her right there. In an elevator. Like a complete lunatic.
I had wanted to slide that dress up her thighs, get on my knees, and find out if she tasted as good as she smelled. I had wanted to hear her say my name without that teasing edge, without the brave face, without anything between us except skin and need. Instead, Nate got on the elevator. I had never been so grateful and so close to murdering a teammate in my life.
After I got to my condo, I had paced for ten minutes like that was going to help. It did not. I stripped out of my clothes, got in the shower, and got myself off to thoughts of Catherine in that black dress. Then I did it again in bed twenty minutes later because apparently I had the self-control of a rookie on his first road trip.
I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed both hands over my face. I needed coffee, water, and to forget that Catherine Celia Davis existed. Two of those things were possible. I went to the kitchen and made a strong coffee. While it brewed, I drank a full bottle of water and stared at my phone on the counter. No text from Isla yet, obviously. She was at camp, living her best life and probably forgetting she had a father who missed her like an idiot. It was good she was having fun, but it still sucked for me.
I poured coffee into a mug and leaned against the counter. My condo was too quiet without her. No cereal bowls in the sink. No pink hoodie thrown over a chair. No little voice asking if we could have waffles for dinner. Just me, coffee, a headache, and inappropriate thoughts about my coach’s daughter. I forced myself to go for a run because suffering seemed deserved. TheDallas heat hit me like a slap the second I stepped outside, and I almost turned around. But I needed to sweat out the bourbon and the bad decisions, so I put in my earbuds and ran until my lungs burned. Six miles later, I felt slightly less like trash.
I came back upstairs, showered, and dressed for the arena for captain duties. Everyone knew what Coach expected from me. I was one of the older guys in the room. I knew the organization. I knew the grind. The rookies and prospects needed to see faces that weren’t only coaches, trainers, and doctors telling them what to do. Cole asked me to meet some of them to build rapport, make the room feel less intimidating. I also had a medical check-in, which I was less excited about. My right shoulder had been annoying me since the end of last season. It was nothing I couldn’t play through. But it had flared a little the other night when I was bench pressing in the gym with Catherine, probably because I was trying to show off and added a little too much extra weight.
I had a few years left before retirement became more than a word people whispered around me, and I wanted to make the most of them. I wasn’t done. I made a big breakfast of eggs, turkey, avocado, toast, and a protein shake. Then I grabbed my keys and headed to the arena. The second I walked in, I reminded myself of the rules. If I bumped into Catherine, I had to act professional and try not to remember her asking me to fuck her. As if that would be possible. I stopped walking in the hallway and closed my eyes for one second.
