He stood before her, shirtless and cranky, the evidence of her crime covering his wrist.
“Do you need your sling?” She looked around for it and spotted it on the bed.
“I’ll deal with it.” He pushed his sweats down, giving her an eyeful of an intriguing bulge wrapped in black cotton. When she didn’t look away, he shot another glare at her. “I’m taking that nap now.”
“Oh, of course. Let me know if you need anything.”
His answer to that was to turn away.
Bast lay on his back, his wrist resting on a pillow, and fumed.
He was being a dick. He knew it. Pepper knew it. After that press conference and his scuffle with Deacon, the whole fucking world knew it.
After sobering up, he should have reverted to his normal, cheerful self. His wrist wasn’t broken, it was merely sprained. This shouldn’t be the end of the world, yet he couldn’t help the doubts churning in his brain. What if this meant it was always weak, forever prone to re-injury?
His wrists were crucial to his future!
Crucial wrist. Good name for a band.
He should have managed his T-shirt removal by himself. He had a ton of experience in pulling a shirt off while his wrist was wrapped like this, so why the hell had he asked for Pepper’s help?
He’d overheard her in the bathroom, upset at someone. Maybe her dad or Connor. Maybe Gallagher, though Bast couldn’t imagine she would still be talking to him after all they’d gone through. But hey, what did he know?
He wanted to, though. He wanted her story. He wanted to delay her exit from the bedroom so he could find out what made her tick, so he asked for help he didn’t need.
Only, the slightest proximity to her was torture.
Up close, her scent had infiltrated his nostrils, curled into his lungs. That floral memory from all those months ago when they first met cut a path through his lizard brain.
The swell of her breast had brushed against his shoulder, and apparently that, combined with his lack of action for a year, had sent his hormones into a riot. It was all he could do not to place his hands—okay, hand—on her hip and drag her into a straddle over his lap. His cock twitched with the image that presented. Pepper’s thighs over his, her pussy flush against his rock-hard erection, her breasts smashed against his chest. Would her nipples be hard? How would they taste? Tangy? Sweet? All he’d have to do was swirl his tongue around them, get those nubs of candy pebble-hard. Then suck on her tit until she—
Stop.
He ran a hand over his cock, straining against his briefs, and let out a brief moan. Fuck, that felt good. But he couldn’t do a thing about it, not with her so close.
He shook his head, desperate to restore reality. The one where he was still mad at Pepper and should not under any circumstances be thinking of all the sweet ways he’d like to fuck her.
Just breathe, man. Fucking breathe.
He checked his phone. More texts and messages, everyone wanting a piece.
He shot a quick one to Reid, telling him he was okay and was about to take a nap, then another in the same vein to Hudson.
One drew his attention above the others. A message from an unknown number but with a photo he recognized: a tattoo of his name with a puck zipping through the “a,” followed by an image of a flame.
Unknown
Hi, Bast! I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. Dex gave me your number. I just wanted to check in on you. I’m Kylie, btw. Lol!
Kylie, the cute blonde from the game. Like she needed an introduction with his name etched on her body. This might be the boost he needed, after a rotten day.
A rotten year.
His fingers hovered over the message. It wasn’t the first time he’d sexted with a fan. That’s how it started with Marina—Marina, who moved on to better and brighter prospects when he was at his lowest point. Kylie would be the perfect diversion, but then he remembered that she was exactly that: if he hadn’t been so distracted by her, he would’ve seen Pepper coming.
A growl of frustration erupted from his throat.
He shouldn’t have brought her here. It made no sense, and because he couldn’t figure it out, he needed to not do anything stupid like respond to a flirty text from a woman he had no real interest in.
He had at least six calls from his agent, so Bast decided to move the man up his list of who needed his attention right now.
“About time you called,” Kit said. “Where are you?”
“Reid’s place in Michigan. Belhaven Harbor.”
“Where the hell is that? Never mind, I can Google it. So. Care to share why you went ballistic on a member of the press this afternoon? Or why you got pissy with your new coach in front of the entire world?”
Would you believe I felt like someone had to protect the woman who supposedly royally fucked me? Nah, I wouldn’t believe it either.
“I don’t like bullies.”
“That’s it? You don’t like bullies. Jesus, put it on a fucking T-shirt or chat about it on Insta.”
“Kit, how about you tell me how bad it is?”
He offered that world-weary sigh that agents seem to have a lock on. “Deacon and the Sun-Times are assessing their options, which is code for they’re talking to lawyers. I figure we can get this fixed with an apology and a donation to Deacon’s favorite charity, which is probably Assholes-Not-So-Anonymous. Some of the sponsors have been on—”
“Who?”
“Under Armor. Gillette. T-Mobile. Just check-ins asking if you’re okay that quickly segued into ‘about that press thing’.”
Kit had done a Herculean job of making sure Bast kept his sponsorships while he was injured, even going so far as to have some of them re-up for a couple of years. But anything with violence—off the ice—would give them a reason to reconsider their support of him.
Which is why he should have said: Right on it!
Instead of this gem: “I won’t apologize. Deacon was a complete asshole to Pepper.”
Kit sighed and asked the billion-dollar question. “And since when is it your responsibility to defend her?”
Since everyone told him he shouldn’t.
“Told you, I don’t like bullies.” His father was one. Reid had been one until Bast became strong enough to fight back. Things were different now, but something in Bast’s brain triggered whenever he encountered similar behavior.
“Well, as your agent, I’m advising you to play nice with Deacon and his massive news organization. And do it soon, so we can soothe the ruffled feathers of the people who pay the big bucks.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said begrudgingly because it was what Kit needed to hear.
“Good man.” Kit gave a significant cough. “Another thing I need to ask. What’s with you and Pepper Calhoun?”
His pulse spiked. “Nothing. I don’t like—”
“Bullies. Yeah, got it. But there’s footage of you two leaving Rebels HQ together in your car. Where is she now?”
One wall over, driving him insane.
“No idea,” he lied.
“You just left her at the side of the road?”
He should have. Because now he was stuck with her in this too-small luxury lake house-slash-cottage.