“Just a sec,” Ollie calls out.
“Fuck, what do we do?” I whisper.
Our interview excuse won’t fly when we’re both half-undressed, breathing hard with flushed cheeks.
There’s a knock on the door again. Now I’m struggling with the small-ass buttons on my shirt. I give up about halfway done and stand to throw my laptop bag over my shoulder.
Ollie steps forward and whispers, “He needs to use the bathroom, so hide and sneak out while he’s in there.”
“Hide?” I hiss. “Where?”
More banging. “Ollie!”
“Shit.” Ollie grabs my arm in a rough way like he did that day we met at the arena. Still don’t mind the manhandling.
Not the time, Lennon.
He shoves me behind the door as he opens it, and I hold my breath.
“What the fuck took you so long?” Petrov asks and charges with his big-ass feet pounding on the carpet toward the bathroom.
Once the bathroom door’s shut, I make a break for it, and Ollie steps into the hall with me.
He glances left and right down the hallway and opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
I fake a smile because I know what’s coming. “Don’t worry about it. Didn’t happen.”
Apparently, making out with me has rendered him speechless. I wish I could say that’s a common occurrence with me, but this would be a first. The sucky thing is it has nothing to do with my skills.
“It … that … I mean, that was too close,” he finally says.
“I know.”
The toilet in the room flushes, and Ollie’s head twists faster than the girl’s from that old movie The Exorcist.
“Good luck in game two.” I turn on my heel and hightail it down the corridor to the elevators, all the while wondering how the hell I’m supposed to forget tonight ever happened.
Chapter Eleven
OLLIE
Getting that night with Lennon in my hotel room out of my head is next to impossible, and every time I think about his lips or how amazingly hard his cock felt under my hand, I can’t help wanting more. I imagine kissing his naked skin, having him inside me, and wonder what he looks like when he comes. None of that can be turned into reality, so like it always has, hockey helps me block out the real world.
Games two and three, we pull off wins. Barely. Both times are a struggle, but we manage. Game four is a fucking mess, and game five isn’t any better.
“What happened to us out there?” Petrov asks as we make it back to our hotel room for the night.
We’ll be in New York for game six, and if we make it to game seven, we’ll be in Boston next week. I’m not getting my hopes up we’ll be back.
“We’re getting progressively worse,” I say.
Petrov loosens his tie and takes it over his head, throwing it like he doesn’t care where it lands. “I’m going out. Going to find hot chick and wham, bam, thank you ma’am her like I did after game one.”
I try not to laugh. “Petrov, who taught you that saying?”
“Bjorn.”
Ah. Figures.
Petrov is quick to get dressed and leave, remembering his keycard to get back in this time.
The superstition thing isn’t so bad during the regular season, but when the Stanley Cup is at stake, some of us take it a little too far. Nearly all of us have our routines and little quirks.
Redoing what happened the night of game one isn’t an option for me though. No matter how much I want it to be.
Since that night, I’ve only seen Lennon in a professional capacity, and even though I beg him silently to ask me a question at press conferences, he’s only directed his questions at Coach.
Maybe I could go to his hotel under the proviso of being superstitious …
No, don’t go over there.
But what if it was to talk and hang out and nothing more?
I shake my head. After last time, I don’t think I could just hang out with him. I’m going to be strong.
That doesn’t stop my fingers from flying across my phone screen.
You happen to know Lennon’s number?
Damn it.
Jet: Whhhhhhhy?
Should’ve known Jet wouldn’t be easy and hand it over no questions asked.
Me: Because I’m asking. That’s why.
Jet: Did he write another article you want to ream him for?
Depends on what type of reaming he means.
Me: I just wanna hang out. It’s depressing when we lose, and all my teammates are bringing me down.
Or I assume they would be if I were with them.
Jet: You lost? Damn.
Me: You know, just because we aren’t playing in our arena, you should at least follow the series …
Jet gives me the number, and I’ve never been more thankful.
Me: Guilt trip for the win! Thanks, man.
Now I have to decide if I’m going to use the information or not. I shouldn’t, but I’m also not going to try to lie to myself again by saying I won’t.