Page 45 of Game Misconduct

eighteen

. . .

Nick

After a long, grueling game, all I want is my bed. I don’t get to crash, though. Our flight from Nashville to Atlanta is relatively quick, less than two hours. But by the time we load in, take off and land, then hit the buses to the hotel, grab our room assignments, and finally make it to the elevators, I’m spent.

We’ve got two full days in Atlanta, including our league-mandated day off. I’m looking forward to sleeping in, maybe taking a walk through a park, eating some delicious food.

The Grizzlies reserved the entire ninth floor of this hotel. Each player and member of the staff gets their own room—except for Larsson, who rooms with his wife, and McKittrick and Amelia, who get to share because of their declared relationship.

I swipe into my room, but the scent of orange blossoms has me pausing. Bex stands at the door across the hall from mine, trying and failing to get her room key to work. Even after a long day at the arena, an entire game, a flight, and now a middle-of-the-night bedtime, her perfume is as electrifying as ever.

Most of the guys change out of their suits into casual clothes for the flights, but she’s still in her work uniform of a blouse and pencil skirt—though she changed her heels for flat shoes. Her red hair is tied up in a ponytail, the waves falling down her back nearly to her ribcage. I want to pull out the tie, let those waves cascade over her shoulders, and run my hands through the strands. Wrap the length around my fist as I⁠—

“Need help?” I ask, my voice rough like sandpaper. It must be the late hour; nobody sounds good at four o’clock in the morning.

“I’ve got it,” she mutters, not looking at me. She presses her key against the sensor, but it buzzes red instead of clicking open. She blows out a disgruntled sigh. “Fuck.”

Leaving my bag, I cross the hall in three steps, then pluck the key from between her fingers.

Bex’s mouth drops open in a surprised O. Her dark red lipstick is perfectly applied, and it’s doing dangerous things to my heart rate.

Without the help of her heels, she’s about half a foot shorter than me. And up close, her perfume is even more intoxicating.

My eyes are on her face, but she’s staring at the door. Okay, fine. If that’s how she wants to play it. One quick flick of my wrist later, the door sensor turns green and clicks open. I turn the handle and push open the heavy door.

“Have a good night, Bex.”

She scowls as she marches past me, dragging her suitcase over my foot. “Fuck off.”

Smiling to myself, I lope back to my room, swiping in and closing the door behind me. I barely have time to strip out of my clothes before I crash into bed and pass the fuck out.

I wake up sometime later to loud, obnoxious knocking. Still half asleep, I stumble out of bed and to the door, wrenching it open.

“What?”

Bex stands on the other side, her hand raised as if she wants to knock again. Her hand twitches, almost rapping on my bare chest, before she yanks her arm down. Her rich brown eyes widen as she stares at me, horrified. What did I do now?

Blearily, I rub at my eyes. “What’s going on?” I modulate my tone to be a bit nicer.

She’s wearing casual clothes today, and I can’t decide whether I like it, or if I prefer her in the business-casual getups she wears to the arena. Not that it’s my choice, or that it even matters. She looks gorgeous no matter what she wears. Now, her leggings and team T-shirt cling to her delicious curves, her long hair in a braid over her shoulder. Her makeup is natural—except for that signature red lipstick.

My cock loves that color on her lips. The early interruption hasn’t affected my morning wood, and dressed only in my boxer briefs, she can probably tell, but I can’t make myself be ashamed for my body’s reaction to her.

“It’s five o’clock,” she says, matter of fact.

I blink. Twice. “I’m confused.”

“You missed team breakfast and lunch. Coach Turner sent me to make sure you weren’t dead.”

Patting my arms and my chest, I confirm that yes, I’m still alive, and no, not having an out-of-body experience.

“I’m not dead.”

“Yet,” she mutters.

Is that a threat or disappointment?