Since I was a kid, making it into the World Hockey League was the ultimate goal. No relationship could match my first love, and after my rough childhood, I wasn't putting my heart on the line.
When Bellerive makes a successful bid to move the Califo...
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There's warmth on my face, and when I crack open one eye, I realize Nathaniel's curtains are thrown wide open with no part of the oversized windows covered. I must have forgotten to close them last night. When I sit up, my head throbs, and I rub my face, my dry mouth a clue to how much I drank last night.
It's been a long time since I've been drunk enough that I needed to stay with my brother...and then I glance down and notice the pretty patterned quilt on the bed, and I swear my mouth goes even drier, which I didn't think was possible.
Shit. I close my eyes and try to center my chaotic thoughts and my pounding head. This isn't Nathaniel's apartment anymore, and the man who tucked me in wasn't my brother.
Pushing back the covers, I realize I'm naked under an oversized California Crows jersey. At least Logan isn't in here with me or I'm not in his bed. I cover my mouth with my hand when a vague memory of puking in the street resurfaces.
So classy.
He must think I'm an absolute disaster. Then I catch sight of the water, Gatorade, and aspirin on the side table, and I can't help an audible sigh of relief. I toss the two pills into my mouth, and I chug the Gatorade.
The bed creaks as I ease back under the covers, drawing them over my head.
"You're awake?" a gruff voice comes from somewhere much closer than I'd like.
I draw the quilt back down, hoping Logan isn't as close as he sounded a second ago. "Awake doesn't seem like the right word," I mutter. When I can't see him, I risk sitting up again, and I notice the bedroom door is wide open, and the oversized couch that used to be in the center of the living room is across the threshold of the door. Logan is sprawled on it, looking too big to have slept there.
"Why are you on the couch? Please tell me I did not puke in your bed."
"Rest easy. Only out the door of the car," Logan says, and he shifts on the couch to face me.
"So, why are you on the couch?"
"Because someone is not looking after themselves." He gives me a pointed stare.
I hold his gaze for a beat, trying to piece together what makes him believe that other than my inability to hold my liquor.
"A concussion mixed with too much alcohol? Ring any bells?"
"I don't have a concussion."
"The way I see it, the only reason you can say that is because you haven't had anyone assess you. There's a bump on the back of your head."
Self-consciously, I run my hand over the spot that's still tender sometimes, but I consider it phantom pain, not the real thing. My brain tries to remind me once in a while to be careful who I trust.
"What happened?" he asks.
"I drank too much."
"Not last night." He sits up, and the blanket that was covering him pools into his lap, revealing his bare chest. "To your head."
