Page 17 of Offside Rules

"So you were sending a message?"

"That he should try the other side? Yeah." A couple of the reporters laugh, and the woman smiles before moving on to her next question.

"You blocked that shot late in the third, then took a hit getting the puck out. You looked uncomfortable coming off. Everything okay?"

"Ask me when I get out of bed tomorrow," I say. A few more reporters laugh, but the woman keeps watching me until I move on to the next question.

My shoulder was bothering me before that shift, but I’m not giving the next team we play a reason to go after it. The trainer checked it after the game and mentioned that he wants Dr. Kendall to see it.

The questions move on to our penalty kill and the road trip coming up. I answer those, then one more about the playoff race before they let me go. In the hall, I take my phone out again. Baylor isn’t in my contacts. Ronny’s group chat is, but I’m not asking her about the kitchen with an audience. I’ll knock tomorrow before eight. If she’s found somewhere else, I can cancel. For now, the guys are waiting at Oakley’s.

* * *

I’ve been home from Oakley’s for four minutes when someone knocks on my door. If one of the guys followed me here, he’ll turn his ass around. I played a full game tonight, stayed for one drink afterward, and spent most of that drink listening to everyone tell Rooks’ bathtub story.

I left out the part of the story that the neighbor under me is Beau Fairbanks’ little sister and how she was standing in my kitchen in his sweatshirt and Hello Kitty slippers.

Everyone on the Hawkeyes team knows Beau. He plays defense for our biggest rival, and the guys would have had plenty to say about his sister living downstairs. They also didn’t need to hear how fucking cute she looked with gold patches under her eyes while she told us to shut the music off.

This morning, she showed up in a cupcake hoodie, her rose-gold hair pulled into a messy bun with loose strands falling around her face. She probably hadn’t slept more than a few hours. I’d noticed all of it while trying to keep her from telling me to fuck off again.

I’ve barely finished changing into navy sweatpants and strapping an ice pack to my bare shoulder. My shirt is still on the bed, and I’m not putting it back on to tell whatever Hawkeyes player is at the door to fuck right off.

I leave my phone on the counter and open the door.

Baylor stands on the other side with a white box in one hand and a bag big enough to hold half her apartment hanging from her shoulder.

"Hi," she says, but her eyes drop before I can answer. She looks at the ice pack, my bare chest, then the navy sweatpants sitting low on my hips. By the time she looks back up, I’m smiling. Plenty of women have looked me over like this. I just didn’t expect it from the one who spent this morning telling me how much she hates me.

"Hi," I say back.

"Of course you’d be wearing that," she mutters, shifting the bag higher on her shoulder.

I glance down at my sweats. "It’s my apartment. I just played a game."

"Right. I saw that block you made." Her eyes move back to the ice pack, and I lean my good shoulder against the doorframe.

"You were watching?"

"No. The kitchen staff at Serendipity’s had it on. I was there, and Ellie let me use the ovens, so I’d have cupcakes for tomorrow. The TV was on."

"So you were watching."

"I was baking." She lifts the box a little. "Is the kitchen offer still open?"

"Yes." I step back to let her in, leaving the game alone before she decides she’d rather go downstairs.

She glances into my apartment first.

"Are any of the guys here?" she asks.

"Nope."

"Do you have a puck bunny stowed away somewhere in here?"

"What… like luggage?" I ask.

"You know what I mean," she says, her eyebrows furrowing.