Dear Roomie (Rookie Rebels #5) - Kate Meader Page 0,76
desperate, huh?”
“Not as desperate as that redhead you used to screw in college. What was she called again?”
“Keep her name out of your mouth.”
“Right, you married her.” Reid’s chuckle was dark. “Merde, she definitely took pity on you.”
“Asshole.”
But he was the asshole with the puck. Sometimes people forgot the heights of dickishness he was prepared to scale in service to the game. Reid had already flicked the puck to Foreman before Maclin’s insult had died on his lips. He shouldered his way past the big Philly man, determined to be out of his range should the puck come flying back.
Which it did.
If Reid squinted, he might be able to make out a pocket of light through the Philly tender’s leg pads. He could take the shot … or take advantage of Petrov who was already in position on the left. Back to the Rebels captain who struck, clean and true.
The horn went off, the crowd went fucking nuts, and Reid felt better about that goal than if he’d scored it himself. Petrov skated over, his gloved hand raised, and Reid high-fived him.
It would be rude not to. While he might be a dick to others on the team, he had a lot of respect for the big Russian.
“Good work, Duracell. Keep it up.”
Duracell. He hadn’t lasted long enough anywhere to acquire a nickname. Reid nodded and headed back to the center.
An hour later, he’d accumulated eighteen minutes and thirty-two seconds of ice time, two assists, and was uncomfortably accepting the praise of his teammates in the locker room after a 5-1 win.
“Jesus, you must hate this,” Foreman said with a grin as he pulled his jersey off.
“It’s not my favorite thing.” He shot a sharp look at Foreman, who was having a hard time not laughing. Or not a hard time at all. “Unlike you who needs constant ego massaging, I prefer to play my game and not make a fuss about it.”
Kershaw clapped Reid on the back. “Fuckin’ awesome, Duracell. Drinks are on you.”
Now wait a minute. “I play great and I have to buy the drinks?”
Gunnar called out, “As you don’t indulge during the season, this’ll be a cheaper round for you.”
“Doesn’t indulge in anything!” Jorgenson’s comment drew plenty of laughter. Well, the joke was on them because for the last few nights he had indulged. He’d indulged all night long.
Someone smarter than him might argue he’d unlocked some sort of magic as soon as he accepted his fate: sex with Kennedy was inevitable, and he had no intention of fighting the thrill in his veins at the very thought of her. But it was more.
Bastian was right: Reid was crushing hard on this woman.
“Yeah, Durand, buy your buddies a drink.”
Reid snapped his head back because that was not the voice of one of his asshole teammates.
Kennedy stood at the entrance to the locker room in all her glory—if you could describe that old lady parka glorious. On Kennedy, undoubtedly. She brought a shine to everything.
She stood back a few feet, her silver-gray eyes dancing and taking it all in. Then she caught his gaze again and smiled, a bright grin that ripped something apart in his chest.
He should not be this glad to see her. But all he could think about was Sunday, once they got that dumb brunch out of the way. They had spent all afternoon in bed, then cooked together, walked Bucky in the park, watched a hockey game, and … well, an early night was always good for his regimen.
Couple stuff. The kind of connection he would never usually seek and couldn’t have imagined he would crave.
Tonight he played well but the victory happened before he touched skate to ice.
He stood and walked toward her, gratified when she met him a few steps in. So she was leaving in a few weeks, but he intended to make it harder for her. Failing that, he would enjoy this time they had left together.
You’re here, he told her with his eyes, before he gathered her in his arms and claimed her with his mouth.
You’re mine, he told her with this kiss. The wolf whistles of the crew couldn’t compete with the thunder in his veins and the rabbit-kick thumps of Kennedy’s heart beating against his chest.
He didn’t want to let her go, not now that he had found her. Neither did he want to share her. On opening his eyes, he found her with a glassy look and kiss-stung lips. Absolutely perfect.