The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,14
Then, I fucked her seven ways ‘til Sunday in my goddamn bedroom.
I turn around, noting the empty side of the bed with an indent still on the pillow. Shit. Where’d she go?
For a guy who has been with too many women to count, none of them, not even Courtney, made quite an impression on me in such little time.
I pull on some sweats before I head downstairs and into the kitchen.
“Indy?” I call out but the house is silent. Did she ghost me?
I chuckle, shaking my head. Little Indy has definitely grown up. In fact, if any other girl ghosted me after a night out followed by hot sex, I’d be relieved. But with Indy, I’m both disappointed and impressed.
My fascination with her heightens when I notice that the Nespresso machine is open and a rinsed-out mug sits next to the sink. She didn’t even try to sneak out but had a leisurely morning on her way out the door. I shake my head and chuckle. Swiping a mug from the cabinet, I pop a Nespresso pod into the machine. As I wait for my coffee to brew, I spot the piece of paper tucked under a book on the kitchen island and pick it up, grinning at Indy’s impeccable handwriting.
Thanks for last night. I had a lot of fun. Have a great day, Indy
Platonic. Sweet. That’s what her note is. It’s a thoughtful message to place me firmly in the friend zone after I spent hours tasting her sweet skin and making her shatter apart with her eyes squeezed tight, her back arched, and her hands clutching my bedsheets.
Jesus. Indy is sexy as hell. All the more so because she’s sweet. And now, she’s friend-zoning me for the first time in my life. The realization makes me laugh and I pick up my phone to message Austin for Indy’s phone number.
No way am I letting her just slip away with the morning light after last night happened. Even though I’m not going to date her, even though there’s no future for us, we need to at least talk about what went down. Clear the air. Make sure things aren’t awkward at future Merrick family gatherings.
I tap out a text to Austin and send it just before my phone rings.
Slipping onto a barstool, I grip my coffee mug and answer.
“East?” Apprehension and hope swirl in my stomach. It’s the first time my brother’s contacted me since he entered rehab a week ago.
“Hey Noah,” my brother’s calm and measured voice comes through the line and I relax some just hearing it.
“How’re you doing?” I raise my coffee to my mouth and take a swig. The hot brew along with Easton’s voice dulls some of my headache.
“I’m okay,” East sighs. “Fuck man, last week was fucking brutal but I feel good. For real this time, I’ve got my head on straight.”
“That’s good, man. I’m glad to hear it. Just focus on your recovery.”
“That’s it. I’m locked in, taking things day by day. But when I get out of here, I’m ready to get back on the ice. It’s the only thing getting me through.”
I tamp down the flicker of hope that spurs in my chest at his words. I know better than to believe them. I’m not saying that East doesn’t mean them because right now, in this moment, he does. His voice is strong, his mind is clear, and a skate would do him good.
But when the temptations of the hockey world wave in front of his eyes, will he be able to choose hockey, choose our team, over a bottle of whiskey?
“You’ve got eleven weeks left,” I point out. “Just take it one day at a time.”
“But I feel great, Noah. Better than I’ve felt in a really long time.”
“That’s awesome, man. You’re doing really good and I’m proud of you for reaching out and getting help.”
He makes a weird sound, a cross between a snort and a chuckle. East and I are as close as brothers can be but we don’t do this shit. Talk about our feelings so openly. We were taught to keep our expressions blank and our mouths shut. Maybe that’s why our family is so dysfunctional?
“Eleven weeks is a long time. I was tossing around the idea of just thirty days,” he says after a moment. “Or sixty.”
Some of the hope in my chest sinks. “Nah, stick it out, man. Give yourself this time to work through things and—”