Chapter 13: Rinkmates: Chapter 13

The roar of the crowd still echoes in my ears as I step into my apartment, the thrill of another win buzzing through my veins.

We scored 8–2 against the Bristol Leaves. Mercer has never been so happy with me, and I start to believe that I can actually do this. I can change for the better. Maybe it’s because my mind is so occupied with Liora living with me and what her moans did to me when she ate my food that I simply had no time to get angry at silly remarks from rival players.

I remember that my dad always told me to not waste my time on women. That keeping my head in the game was everything I needed. But stepping away from it seems to be just what I was missing. I was on the phone with my therapist for almost two hours, and one particular sentence keeps echoing in my mind: Being dedicated to your work can be a positive quality, but it’s important to recognize when it’s becoming detrimental to your well-being.

He’s right.

I need to stop focusing on my career so much and enjoy the process again. I toss my keys on the black kitchen counter and my eyes settle on a stack of photos—Liora’s photos. Oh, what has she done now? Commercial shots, by the look of them. I know I probably shouldn’t check on them because the five-foot monster will rip my head off if she sees me, but against my better judgment, I check the apartment. I hear the shower running and just as I “accidentally” knock over the stack of photos and they conveniently fan out, one specific picture catches my attention.

Oh, just my luck.

“She’s going to be the death of me,” I mutter and snatch the damn photo up for a closer look. Yeah. I’m a dead man walking.

My heart races and I study every detail of her.

That fucking ass, perfectly round and barely covered by a lacy skirt. The way she stands with her back to the camera, her head turned just enough to look directly at me—or rather the fucker who snapped her like this—it makes my skin prickle from head to toe. She’s giving me that look like You know you want this. And just like that, my little soldier betrays me and stands at attention.

It’s official. That ass is my weak point, but as soon as I see the hulking man standing next to her, my dick takes a nosedive.

There’s another figure skater, one arm wrapped around her, grinning like he’s the luckiest man alive. And I think he is.

Jealousy rips through me, hot and sharp.

What the hell? Who is this guy? I need to talk to her about making our relationship public, posting something on my Instagram together, and she’s showcasing my ass with another man.

Suddenly a shriek pierces the air—Liora’s voice, coming from the bathroom. Startled, I stuff the photo into my hoodie’s pocket and ran down the hall to her room.

“Lia? You okay in there?” I blurt out, knocking on the door. Damn it. I didn’t mean to call her that. It’s that stupid nickname I made up when I was a teenager. Whatever. Now I have to stick with it and pretend it means nothing.

“No, and never call me Lia again, but shit, everything’s ruined!” There’s a pause and I hear water streaming. “Come in! Hurry!”

I jiggle the handle of the door, but it’s locked. Of course it is.

Worry claws at my chest.

I need to get to her, now. “Why do you always lock your door?”

“Because I want to keep your nosy self out!” Or rather her secret werewolf self in.

“Well look where this gets you. Just tell me you have clothes on. Please.”

“Riley! The shower it’s—”

“Lia?”

Since I can’t hear her anymore, my mind races, a sick feeling rising in my gut. She’s clearly in trouble. I need to man up and get to her, busted door be damned.

I take a step back, steel my resolve, and prepare to bust my way in, praying she’s all right…I slam my shoulder against the door once, twice, until the latch gives way with a splintering crack. Stumbling into the bathroom, I’m met with a scene of utter chaos.

The shower head lies in pieces on the tiled floor, water gushing out of it like a broken dam. Below lies the shattered faucet handle, and I have no idea what the fuck had happened. The once-clean tiles are now slippery with inches of water, making it dangerous to walk across. And there, in the midst of the chaos, stands Liora—a slender frame shrouded in nothing but a damp towel, her hair plastered against her face as she desperately tries to stop the broken pipe from spewing more water. And I know I should be frantic about the water damaging my apartment, but all I can think of is that she’ll ruin me if that flimsy towel loses its grip where she tucked the ends in.

“Riley! Help me!” she yells, her fingers grasping onto the valve as if trying to hold back a raging river. “The shower just—exploded!”

“Jesus,” I say and finally wade through the toe-high flood toward the main valve under the sink. The damage is already done as water seeps out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, creating a chaotic mess.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I manage to shut off the water supply and turn back to Liora, my heart clenching at how small and vulnerable she looks, shivering in her tiny towel. Water drips from her lashes as she blinks up at me. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done. I just took a shower and then, well, the shower head exploded, and that thing went off and my shower is different and I didn’t know where—”

I get up again and walk over to her. My heart flutters at the sight of that scared look on her face, making me want to touch her shoulders. But she’s all wet, and I’m basically dumbstruck already, so I force my hand to slide into my jeans pockets and stay the fuck there.

“Calm down. It’s okay. There must be something with the pipes. Don’t worry, I’ll get a plumber and it’s done before you can say tide.”

And there’s that little signature frown of hers again and I’m back to feeling comfortable. I can’t cope with scared Liora, but angry Liora I know.

“I just damaged your entire bathroom, Ri.” It’s the first time she’s used that nickname, and my heart rate picks up. I’ve never liked my name—Riley. It always sounded too nice and fluffy for someone as broken as I am. “I should help clean up and pay for the repairs and—”

“Don’t start with that. I’m your landlord, aren’t I? So if there’s a broken shower, I’ll handle it. Now, come on, let’s get you out of here.” I guide her by the elbow, careful to avoid any more slips. But as we step into the hallway, I mutter a curse under my breath.

The water soaked the carpet of her bedroom. Fuck. She can’t sleep in here tonight. I quickly pull the door shut, stemming the spread onto my hardwood floors in the hallway.

“My clothes,” Liora says, trying to grip the door handle, but I hold her back.

“Hey, hey, we don’t want any water in the hallway,” I say. “You can borrow something of mine for now. We’ll fix it. Don’t worry.”

“I-I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I—”

“It’s nothing. You can’t afford to catch a cold, so we’re going to get you dressed. ASAP.” I’d love to tell her that I worry more about her seductive body than the flood she caused, but hell, I would never say that out loud.

“How can you be okay with it? Just thinking about the cost, it’s—” She drives both her hands through her wet hair, and just from the corner of my eyes, I see it coming. My death sentence. Luckily, my reflexes are sharp, like a hockey player’s, or I wouldn’t have managed to catch that godforsaken towel in time. With trembling fingers, I clutch the cloth with all my might. But just as I keep it up, I realize how much of an idiot I am.

“Um,” she mutters, suddenly not seeming to panic at all anymore.

We just stand there.

I blink. She blinks.

And here I am, with my hands on her towel.

I cough nervously and nod to my hands. “Um, would you please?”

Her plush mouth forms a little O and she grabs her towel. Her cheeks are as red as beets, and I’m pretty sure mine look the same. It’s then that I realize we’re so damn close. In my bedroom. She stands there, rooted to the ground. Damn, it’s the first time a girl is half naked in here and not mine.

Our feet touch, her gaze flicks up to my mouth, and as if that tiny reaction alone would earn me a twenty-year sentence, I retreat and search for something she can wear. Fuck. Fucking shit. I need to fuck someone. My hand just isn’t enough anymore. This is embarrassing. I’ve never felt anything like this. Her living in my apartment and not fucking me must be wrecking my brain.

With the first shirt I could find, I turn around and find her staring at my room, so I try to say something. Anything. Just to get rid of that silence.

“Not what you expected?”

She turns around. Her knuckles white from clasping the towel against the swell of her breasts. “What?”

“My room.”

She grins. I take a deep breath.

“You have more books than I thought.”

I blink, surprised. She’s the first person to notice the massive bookshelf next to my bed. Most girls usually comment on the array of trophies lined up above it. The truth is, I just don’t know where else to put them. Since I didn’t want them cluttering the living room, I ended up stashing all the medals and trophies in here.

“Ah, because hockey players don’t read, huh?”

“I didn’t think you read.”

Ouch.

There’s that challenging grin of hers, and if I didn’t know she hates the guts out of me, I’d think she’s flirting.

My mind drifts back to the photo burning a hole in my pocket.

Liora in another man’s arms.

I stretch out the shirt in my hands and notice it’s one of my jerseys.

Oh. I quickly add a few pairs of boxers for her to wear, hoping she doesn’t realize how much giving her one of my jerseys means to me. It’s a sensitive thing. Seeing her wear my name feels almost primal, like a possessive urge.

“You can keep it, it’s yours,” I say rougher than I want and drop it on my bed.

“Thanks,” she says, still staring at my bookshelf as if she’s dying to know which books I’ve got in there. I know that feeling. Each time I find a bookshelf I need to know what the owner reads.

“I mostly read thrillers or mysteries. Dan Brown. Gillian Flynn. Stieg Larsson. You name it,” I say. “I do enjoy some fantasy, too, a story that takes me somewhere that’s anything but my life.”

A knot twists in my gut and she looks up to me as if to ask why on earth I would be anyone but me. “It’s not all gold that shines,” I simply say, and she nods as if she understands. Or at least tries to.

But then she shifts and I stare at the rivulets of water still trailing down her bare legs. But yeah, I notice. I swallow. The towel ends just inches below her pussy. And the way she presses those thighs against each other. Damn it.

That image will be seared in my memory forever.

I need to go.

“You wanna watch?”

It takes me a second that she wants me to leave and not watch her undress. Because—well—yes, ma’am, I’d like to watch.

“Of course not! I’ll call the plumber,” I say, my cheeks turning a bright shade of beet red.

Fuck, that sounded like something out of a porn I’d watch.

As I step out to give her privacy and make the call, I grit my teeth, this bathroom situation is going to be a headache. One problem at a time, Huntington.

The plumber finally arrived, but Liora is still in my bathroom. The first thing she did was call her mom to share what had just happened, and I think it’s really sweet how her mom is always her first call. It’s clear that her mom acts as an anchor for her. When I think about my own mom, I don’t feel any sense of calm.

Next she started blow-drying her hair.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone take so long to dry their hair. It’s like she’s hiking Mount Everest in there. And while I wait for her to finish, I can’t help but laugh at the thought of her barricading herself in there to avoid me. But can I blame her? Nope. Not after that stupid towel attack.

The plumber’s eyes widen as he takes in the state of Liora’s bathroom and lets out a low whistle. “You’re gonna need to replace all the pipes in here,” he says, shaking his head. “And the bedroom carpet is a lost cause.”

I run a hand through my hair, frustration mounting. “How long will it take?”

“The carpet? At least a week.” He shrugs apologetically. “The bathroom? A month, considering the expensive tiles.”

Liora steps out of the bedroom wearing nothing but my oversized jersey and the boxer shorts. The plumber, who’s crouched down trying to sop up water from the flooded bedroom, does a double take when he sees her, his eyes lingering far too long on her bare legs.

I wish I could say I didn’t gulp at the sight of her in my jersey. With my number on her. That big fat Huntington on her back. By now I’m used to fighting against my obsession and manage to bark at the plumber, “Hey, eyes up here.”

Then I turn to her and take her hand in mine like it’s the most natural thing to do. “Are you feeling all right, baby?”