I don’t call again, afraid I’ll say something even worse. I set Violet’s glasses and my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. My head is pounding from too little sleep. As exhausted as I am, I can’t relax enough to pass out. I have Violet on the brain. I’m not sure what happened between the time she said she wouldn’t have sex with me and the moment she suctioned her face to mine, but I sure don’t regret her change of mind.
Sleeping with my teammate’s sister, step or not, isn’t something to be proud of. Ironically, based on the media, it’s exactly what’s expected of me, and it blows. If Violet finds out about my reputation—assuming she hasn’t already—she may very well never want to speak with me again, no matter how many orgasms I fucked out of her last night. It’s thoughts such as these that keep me awake for the next two hours, wishing she’d call back so I can talk to her before someone else does. Especially Butterson.
My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hit talk, and grumble into the receiver.
“Hey, man. Where are you? You’re holding us up.”
“Darren? Dude, it’s early. What’s the deal? We don’t leave until—” I hold my phone out to check the time. It’s almost one in the afternoon. I was supposed to be on the bus twenty minutes ago. “Shit. I’ll be right down.”
I throw on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Tossing the rest of my clothes into my duffle bag, I run around the room like an idiot, hoping I don’t leave anything important behind.
Stopping in the bathroom, I check my reflection. There’s a hickey on the side of my neck. I don’t recall Violet giving me one, but there it is. There’s no covering up what happened last night now. Annnnd now I’m hard thinking about other things she sucked on. It’s shameful that I have to force myself to focus on hockey stats so I don’t leave the room with a massive woody.
The last thing I put in my bag are Violet’s glasses; I’m careful to wrap them in a shirt so they don’t get scratched. I throw on my jacket, grab my bag, shove my phone in my pocket, and check for my wallet. The elevator is empty. Stopping at Violet’s room on the way down is pointless since checkout happened hours ago. Besides, she hasn’t returned my call. I don’t like how that makes me feel.
The whole team is already on the bus when I arrive. Coach is pissed I’m late because it messes with the scheduled stops on our way to Tampa. The team greets me with hollers and snide comments. I need to come up with a story for last night—I’m usually better prepared than this.
I take the empty seat beside Darren. His brow furrows as he sniffs. “You smell like stale sex.” Darren has been my wingman on and off the ice for the past several years. He’s fully aware last night was an anomaly.
I shrug, passing it off like it’s nothing. As much as I needed a shower, in a sick way, I’m glad I didn’t have time. All I smell is Violet.
Kirk pops up from the seat behind me. “Who’d you bang last night?”
“Some chick I met in the elevator.” My stomach turns. No matter how this plays out, I look like an asshole, and right now I deserve the title.
“Oh, yeah? Only one? No Hat Trick?”
Darren rolls his eyes, and I mumble a noncommittal response.
At thirty-five, Kirk is one of the older players on the team, and this is likely his last season. He hasn’t come to terms with it. He’s been banging every chick he can lately, despite the wedding band he sports. It’s disgusting. In my rookie days, I used to think he was cool. Now he’s become pathetic.
“Weren’t you screwing around with Butterson’s sister at the bar?”
“She’s his stepsister. We were just talking.” I want to punch him in the face for being such a dick.
Bringing Violet back to my room was bad form. I’ll be lucky if this doesn’t blow up in my face.
There’s no justification for what I did. I don’t have a good excuse. This isn’t even close to normal for me. The most I do is flirt, especially with a teammate’s sister. Until last night. I’d been serious about not having expectations. I might have had a chance at resisting her if she hadn’t made the first move, or worn something other than those damn pj’s.
Unfortunately, Butterson overhears my exchange with Kirk. He jumps up from his seat and stalks down the aisle. “Fuck you, dude. You were all over Violet. Now you hold us up ’cause you’re bunny fucking?”
No way in hell am I admitting I was with her last night. “She kissed me, not the other way around.” My verbal defense is weak.
“Bullshit. You followed her outside. She thinks hockey players are dirtbags. Next time she comes to a game, you better keep your hands and your mouth to yourself. She’s a good girl; she’s doesn’t screw around.”
“If you say so.” If she’s witnessed Butterson’s antics I can understand why she thinks we’re all dirtbags, although I’d argue last night might have changed her opinion.
Butterson grabs me by the shirt and hauls me out of my seat. “I’m not kidding around, Captain Asshole. Violet’s not that kind of girl. Lose her number.”