In My Rearview Mirror, JACK.HUGHES

FOURTEEN

The hotel lobby's dead quiet except for the hum of the vending machines, the sound of my heels against the tile louder than I'd like. I give the lobby clerk a lazy smile, and Jack heads off to grab a water bottle, tossing a "good night" over his shoulder like it's no big deal that it's almost 2 am and we've got a full day ahead. Typical.

The girls are already making plans for tomorrow's game, and I agree to meet them before, but right now? I'm buzzing with exhaustion and just want my room. I fumble through my tiny purse—seriously, why do I even carry this thing?—searching for the damn room key. But nope. Not happening. Cue my anxiety, rising like a freaking wave about to crash. Of course, I don't have the key.

I huff, muttering a quick "fuck this" under my breath, and drag myself back to the lobby. The clerk gives me that half-bored, half-annoyed look when I ask for a new key. "Can't do it, ma'am," he says. "Room's under Braden's name."

I blink. Seriously? My patience is thinner than a sheet of ice. "My boyfriend is gonna have a fun time hearing about this in the morning," I snap, and I'm not even bluffing. But this guy, he doesn't give a shit. He suggests I pay for another room. Ha. As if I'm shelling out more cash.

So, screw it. Back upstairs I go, knocking on Braden's door like I'm trying to wake the dead. Three minutes of this, calling him, pounding, getting zilch. Fucking typical. I'm ready to scream, but instead, I slide down to the floor, feeling every ounce of frustration and exhaustion settling in. I slip off my shoes, close my eyes, and lean back against the door. Just sitting there like a total idiot, waiting for this dude to wake up and save me.

Suddenly, I hear the shuffle of a door at the end of the hall. I glance up, and there's Jack, staring at me like I'm some lost puppy. He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Lost your key?" His voice is low, teasing.

"Yeah, and the guy downstairs won't give me one. Says it's not in my name," I say, waving my hand like that somehow explains how stupid this whole situation is. I'm half pissed, half embarrassed, but Jack? He just chuckles.

"Come crash at mine," he says, like it's the most obvious solution in the world. "I've got a couch. You can have my bed."

I roll my eyes, ready to protest. "Jack, no, I'm not—"

"Just shut up, Morgan. You're drunk, and I'm not letting you sleep in the hallway like a stray. Get up," he orders, already turning towards his door.

Ugh. Fine. I drag myself up, feeling the ache in my feet from these damn heels. As I follow him into the room, I glance at my phone. 2:04 am. Tomorrow's gonna be hell, but right now, all I care about is getting horizontal and not on a fucking hallway floor.

Jack locks the door, the click echoing in the dim room as the streetlight outside barely filters through the blinds. I kick off my shoes, rubbing my aching feet, while Jack, in his typical no-fuss way, grabs a pillow from the bed and tosses it to the couch without hesitation. There's something oddly sweet about the roughness of it all—effortless, casual. Not that I'd ever tell him that.

"You said I was drunk, but let's be real, Jacky boy, you're drunk too," I tease, crossing my arms and watching his reaction.

He rolls his eyes immediately. "Ugh, don't call me Jacky boy. That gives me the ick," he grumbles, but there's a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Yeah, yeah, sure it does," I laugh. "Bet you were ready to fight when you heard me knocking on Braden's door, huh?"

His grin widens. "Honestly? I was about to throw hands. But then I saw you sitting there, looking all helpless." He reaches into his bag and tosses me one of his oversized Devils t-shirts. "Here, go change before you knock yourself out."