I wake with a pulse in my skull.
My mouth is dry as I attempt to swallow. With my eyes still closed, I push up on my elbows and wince at the tight muscles.
“What the hell happened last night?” I mumble.
A shot of bravery has me opening my eyes and taking in the dark room. My room. Relief rushes through me.
The pile of homework and textbooks is still high on my desk, and my floor-length blackout curtains are pulled tight, keeping the sun out. My alarm clock reads 10:05 a.m.
I’m surprised at the quietness of the apartment for this late in the morning. Morgan is an early riser, but maybe she’s as dead to the world as I am.
I kick off the blankets and stand on shaky legs. When I lift my hands to push my hair out of my face, I’m surprised to see two long sleeves swallowing them. Holding my arms out, I stare down at the Saints emblem on the chest and find the name Hutton on the right shoulder.
Flutters awaken in my belly as I furrow my brows, trying to piece together what happened before I ended up at home. The last thing I remember is me and Oakley finding Matt and Morgan in the dining room.
“My love! I hear you’ve been showing off again.” Morgan scoops me up in her arms and kisses my head over and over again. “I’m proud of you for socializing,” she whispers before pulling back, grinning.
“Yeah, well. It seems hiding in the background is not a possibility in the presence of a top NHL prospect after all.”
“Not when he wants you with him,” She winks.
“It was just beer pong, Mo.”
She hums. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take the small win. But now that you’re here, it’s time to drink up. Matt is as sober as a nun and refuses to drink with me.”
I scrunch my nose. “What are you drinking?”
She lifts a long bottle of red wine in the air. “Adam busted out his dad’s wine from the cellar. He put a bottle in the fridge for you a few minutes ago.”
“Not the wine.” I wince. It’s Adam’s daily fuck you to his parents.
A warm hand touches my tailbone as Oakley comes to my side again. “What’s wrong with the wine?”
“It’s grossly expensive. The more we drink, the happier Adam gets,” Morgan says, her words slurring.
I look up at him. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I just hate that he has to go to these extents to get attention from his father.”
As an ache grows in my chest, I find myself reaching for the bottle in Morgan’s hands and bringing it to my lips. I drink it down like it’s water before pulling it away and shivering at the bitterness.
Oakley’s touch becomes firmer, the heat of his fingertips seeping through my top.
“His parents are that bad?” he asks.
Matt nods. “Yeah. They’re that bad.”
“Shit.”
“Just don’t mention it to Adam. It’s best if we leave that topic alone,” I say.
“Got it. Should I go get your bottle?” Oakley asks me.
I smile sheepishly. “Sure. Thanks.”
He looks reluctant to remove his hand from my back but eventually does. As soon as he’s headed back inside, I take another gulp of wine before handing it back to Morgan.
“I hate you for playing the Adam card. Now I’m going to have a terrible hangover.”
I shudder at the memory. That would explain the throbbing headache.
Stumbling out of my room, I stare at the empty apartment. The only shoes by the door are the white trainers I wore last night.
If it weren’t for the nausea starting to make me sway in the middle of the living room, I would have gone searching for my phone and called my missing roommate, but instead, I head for the couch and collapse on the cushions.
My forehead is sweaty, but my limbs are freezing, so I pull a blanket over me and flip the TV on, not bothering to change the channel from some sports talk show.
The two men drone on and on about the upcoming NHL season, their voices putting me back to sleep. That is until I hear them switch gears.
“I know we haven’t really dug into this year’s pot of prospects yet on the show, but what better time than the present. Ryan, first thoughts when you look at that list?”
I peel my left eye open and look at the screen. The two men are older, probably mid-forties. One has cropped black hair and a thick, bushy beard, while the other has a shiny bald head and iceberg blue eyes.
The camera zooms in on the bald guy, and a picture of a long list with ten names is placed beside his head. The first five names are highlighted a bright yellow.
My eyes go wide when I see Oakley’s name at the top.
“First thoughts? This is going to be a hard year. The skill is unbelievable. The race will be tighter than it has for the past few years.”
“Absolutely. I mean, I look at this list and can’t confidently say which one of these players will come out on top at the draft. It’s still early in the season, but these are players that have been watched for years now. One for way longer than the others.”
The bald guy, Ryan, laughs. “That’s the elephant in the room, isn’t it? Oakley Hutton has finally entered the draft. I won’t lie; I was getting a bit nervous for a while there.”
Curiosity rolls over me. Suddenly, Ryan is replaced by a video of a hockey game. I recognize the player at the forefront of the video by the number eleven on his jersey.
“This was the Oakley’s last game with the Penticton Storm. Watch as the players swarm him and they battle for the puck, but in a split second, Oakley makes a play, evading both of them and setting up his teammate for the game-winning one-timer. I mean, come on. He’s a once-in-a-lifetime playmaker.”
“I’ve seen this replay hundreds of times, and it always gives me shivers.”
“Same here, Marcus.” He waves at someone behind the camera. “Pull up the replay of the Vancouver Saints’ home-opener game.”
I roll to my side and prop my head with my hand as I watch the video change. The black-and-red Saints home jerseys flick around the ice. The camera follows the players around until I see Braden get hit from behind and crumple to the ice. I fight back a wince when Oakley grabs the player who delivered the hit and starts to hit him.
“Regardless of the fact that fights like this aren’t encouraged in the minors, I can’t help but be impressed by number eleven here. If I’m a GM right now, I’m looking at everything Oakley can bring to their team. Not only is he an offensive beast, but he’s not afraid to drop the gloves and protect his team,” Marcus says, his voice light, almost as if he’s in awe. The thought has me smiling.
I lie back down on my back when the hosts start to talk about the guy with the second spot on their list. It’s not that I’m not interested; I just don’t want to focus on Oakley’s competition.
Obviously, I knew Oakley was good. Matt wasn’t shy about sharing how hard their coach had tried to convince him to sign with the Saints, but it’s different seeing it so openly on TV. It makes it more real.
Being his friend is even more daunting now than it was before.
I shove that thought to the back of my head and close my eyes. The sooner I can fall back asleep, the quicker my hangover will go away.
I don’t know how long I sleep for, but I’m woken by the slamming of a door and chatting voices.
“Quiet, Mo. She could still be sleeping.” That’s Matt.
“If she isn’t up yet, I dibs dumping a bucket of water on her head,” Morgan says, way too enthusiastically.
I use a tingling hand to swat the top of the couch. “Nobody is dumping water on my head.”
“And she’s awake.” The deep voice has me pushing into a sitting position and looking at the group over the back of the couch.
Oakley has a giant bag of McDonald’s in his hand, and my stomach grumbles loudly. He grins and, after kicking off his shoes, joins me on the couch. I pull my legs in to make room for him.
Setting the bag down between us, he starts to pull out a bunch of food, placing it in front of me. “We didn’t know what you would want.”
“So you got me one of everything?” I tease.
He laughs. “Close enough, yeah.”
I pick up a hash brown. “Thank you. I’m starving.”
“It’s the hangover. I’m telling you, that wine is no good,” Morgan whines and sits on the loveseat, dragging Matt behind her.
“How much did I drink?” I ask, finishing my hash brown.
“A bottle and a little bit,” Oakley answers.
Morgan clicks her tongue. “You were trying to finish mine off before Oakley convinced you to come home. You should thank him for not letting you sleep in a puddle of your own vomit.”
“He drove us back here, and Morgan took you and tucked you in bed. The food was his idea too. Bless his soul,” Matt puts in.
I toy with the sleeves of the hoodie I’m wearing. “When did I get this?”
“Before we left the party. You told me you were cold.” I look at Oakley and find his cheeks a subtle shade of pink. He meets my stare, and our eyes lock. “You look good in it. Keep it.”
I nod and push down how happy that makes me. With a hell of a lot of inner strength, I tear my eyes from his and focus on the TV. This time, there’s last night’s Vancouver Warriors game playing.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all morning?” Morgan asks, her mouth half-full so the words are muffled.
Everyone looks at me as I say, “No, I mostly slept.”
“Tell me you were at least watching a game better than this one. The VW lost 6 to 1 last night,” Oakley says.
Matt sucks air through his teeth. “At least it’s only pre-season.”
“Still,” Oakley grumbles. He hands me a bottle of orange juice, and I take it without hesitation.
“Thank you.” I smile. “And this game must have started while I was sleeping. There was some sports interview show on when I first came out here.”
That grabs Oakley’s attention. His eyebrows shoot up. “Which show?”
“Was it Marcus and Ryan, Ava? I’ve been trying to get you to watch that show since last season! Marcus is so hot with that scruffy mountain man vibe.” Morgan swoons.
Matt scoffs. “You don’t like beards.”
“Maybe I just don’t like them on you. Your jawline is too chiselled to cover it with a beard.”
“You’re going to give me a complex, Mo.”
“As if you don’t have one already.”
Oakley and I look at each other with the same entertained expression as the couple bickers. He leans toward me, and I follow his lead until we’re no more than a breath apart.
His voice is a low rasp. “What do you say we finish breakfast, and then you let me take you somewhere.”
My curiosity piques. “Will it be a secret? Is that why we’re whispering?”
“You’re not a keep as a secret kind of girl, Ava. I just figured you wouldn’t want Morgan to force you to come with me if she heard me asking.”
There’s no stopping my blush once I feel my cheeks begin to warm. This guy keeps finding every single one of the stereotypes I’ve ever had about hockey players and crushing them in his bare hands.
“I appreciate that,” I admit. He smiles. “And my only plans were to veg out in bed, but if you have a better idea, I’m game.”
His eyes twinkle. “Challenge accepted.”
