Shutout: Rules of the Game Book 2

TYLER

I make what should be a twenty-minute drive in less than ten and pull up to the curb of a swanky apartment building, leaving my Audi running in a no-parking zone. They won’t have enough time to tow me, and I don’t give a flying fuck if I get a ticket.

Cold winter air whips at my cheeks as I slide out of my SUV, the wind biting my bare forearms. In twenty-two degrees, a coat would’ve been a smart idea, but I wasn’t exactly thinking when I left. When I step onto the sidewalk, I spot a uniformed doorman standing outside the glass double doors, and trepidation seizes me. Damnit. Getting past him might be an issue.

Like I predicted, saying I’m here to see “my friend Rob who lives in the penthouse” gives me zero credibility in the eyes of the middle-aged building attendant, who side-eyes my tattoos and refuses to let me pass without Rob’s last name. In my mind, it’s Pieceofshit, but this guy won’t buy that. When I try to argue, he tells me to “call Rob” if I have a problem with it. If I had his fucking number, I’d do that in a heartbeat. In fact, I’d tell him to come downstairs so we can have a chat fist to face outside.

After more unsuccessful attempts to negotiate, I resort to bribing the doorman to get upstairs—and it isn’t cheap. A private elevator whisks me up to the penthouse on the twenty-fifth floor. Rap music tumbles inside as the doors spring open, unveiling bachelor bro central. Everything is chrome, and I do mean everything.

Side-stepping a couple making out in the entry, I scan the room for Seraphina’s distinctive rose-gold hair. A cluster of well-dressed people are lounging on white leather couches in the living area. Another handful of partygoers have gathered around the coffee table in the center of the room, snorting lines off the glass.

Abby spots me in the crowd and sashays over, clutching a martini glass in one hand. Her eyes are glassy, and her expression tells me she’s more than a little fucked up. I guess Seraphina isn’t the only one.

“Hi, Hades. I mean, Tyler.” She giggles. “What are you doing here? Did Sera invite you?”

“Where is she?” Glancing over her shoulder, I survey the sprawling apartment again. It’s packed with bodies, but I don’t see Sera.

“Chill.” Abby rolls her eyes, twirling a lock of copper hair around her finger. “I saw her not too long ago. She’s around here somewhere.”

Her blasé attitude only pisses me off further. I hate knowing Seraphina has a friend this shitty.

“How long ago?” I demand. “She just called me freaking out.”

“Sera did? Why?”

“Because she’s high as fuck and she’s scared.” Another scan of the room leaves me frustratingly empty-handed. My irritation spikes, and I turn back to face Abby. “Don’t you have some kind of girl code? Aren’t you supposed to look out for each other?”

She waves me off. “Sera’s a big girl. She’s been to plenty of parties before.”

“Hopefully not like this.”

“It’s no big—”

I storm away from her mid-reply and stalk through the apartment, yanking open every door I can find. Three bedrooms, one closet, several couples in various states of undress, and no Seraphina. The more I search, the more worried I become—because I haven’t seen Rob yet, either. If I find him anywhere near her while she’s in this state, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.

Finally, I reach a locked door at the end of the hall with a light pouring out beneath it. Tentative hope sparks within me. Please let her be in here, and please let her be alone.

“Ser?” I knock on the door, putting my ear against it. “Are you in there? It’s Tyler.”

The lock rattles, and the door swings open to reveal her standing on the other side. I heave a sigh of relief as all the worst-case scenarios I’d been imagining dissolve into thin air.

Before I can get a good look at her, she launches herself at me and wraps her arms around my waist. Her perfume surrounds me as her body radiates heat through my clothes.

She buries her face in my chest, sobbing. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” I return the hug, rubbing her back to calm her.

A few people are staring at us from the other end of the hallway, so I slowly walk her backward into the bathroom and close the door behind me to get some privacy.

“I’m sorry…” Seraphina draws in a jagged inhale, tears seeping through the cotton fabric of my shirt. “I felt so sick, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

Her breathing slows after another minute or two. She gradually relaxes in my arms, but she doesn’t let me go. Resting my cheek on the crown of her head, I inhale the tropical scent of her shampoo and wait until I’m confident her panic attack has passed.

“Look at me for a sec, Tink.” Tilting her chin, I gently angle her face up to mine so I can see better in the bathroom lighting.

Her pupils flicker, darting back and forth as she tries to focus on me. “You’re scaring me,” she murmurs.

“Just making sure you’re okay.” There’s a pang in my gut as I study her face. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot, and her skin is red and blotchy from crying, remnants of black mascara trailing down her cheeks. She looks terrified.

And she’s still beautiful—ruined makeup and all.

I’ve drifted from assessing her into admiring her. Not the time or place, Tyler.

“Hold on. I don’t want you to rub makeup in your eyes.” I grab a tissue off the counter, wet it under the tap, and carefully remove the dark streaks marring her face. Once I’m finished, I reluctantly drop my hand. “How are you feeling?”

Seraphina takes a fresh tissue from the box and wipes her nose. “Awful. I wanna go home.”

“Come on,” I tell her. “Let’s go find your coat.”

Opening the bathroom door, I place a hand on her lower back to guide her into the hall. She teeters in her heels, and my arm wraps around her waist to keep her steady. Rob glares at me as we leave, clearly pissed. As the elevator doors slide closed, I throw him a middle finger with my free hand. Sera is too out of it to notice.

“Did you mix the joint with anything else, Tink?” My gaze flicks over to Seraphina, trying to gauge her sobriety level. She’s curled up using a spare hoodie I found in the backseat as a pillow, and she hasn’t said a word for the entire fifteen minutes we’ve been in the car. I’ve tried to let her rest, but I also need to know.

“Um… when I didn’t feel good, Abby told me to go see Rob and he gave me a vodka seven. It tasted strong. Might’ve been a double.”

My jaw clenches, but I hold my tongue.

“Is that bad?” she asks in a tiny voice.

“Not ideal, but you’ll be fine. We’ll need to hydrate you once we’re home, though.”

Silence cloaks the interior of my vehicle. In addition to the bloodthirsty vendetta against Rob that I’m fostering, I’m concerned about her because I’m not sure what drove her to do this in the first place. Judging by how things went down, it seems like she was way out of her depth. She’s bold; a little wild, even, and I like that about her. Putting herself in a situation like that verges on reckless.

There are a few possible explanations for what happened. She’s inexperienced and simply smoked too much. There was something else in the joint. Or someone—potentially Rob—spiked her drink. With the kind of people she was hanging out with, it’s anyone’s guess. And without any form of proof, that’s how it’ll stay. A big fucking question mark that’ll haunt me.

Slowing to a stop at a red light, I glance at her again. “What happened earlier today, Ser?”

Seraphina doesn’t look at me. “Like I said, I was having a bad day.”

I don’t want to upset her, so I drop it.

She leans against the window and falls quiet for a few seconds. “Question twenty-one: Have you ever done any drugs?”

“I’ve done lots of things,” I say, giving her a pass for misnumbering the question; we’re up to twenty-two now. “But not anymore.”

Much to my relief, the house is completely dark when I pull up. Hanging out upstairs obviously isn’t an option, so I shuttle Seraphina into my bedroom as soon as we get inside. I’m not sure what my longer-term plan is for tonight, but I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m in triage mode.

Steering Seraphina across the room to my bed, I hang her coat on my computer chair and light the desk lamp on the way by. She perches on the edge of my mattress, still wearing her gold heels. Sympathy washes over me. Something tells me she doesn’t have the coordination to undo the tiny buckles holding the straps together.

“Let me get your shoes off, Tink.”

She nods wordlessly and leans back, bracing her palms behind her on the bed. I kneel on the carpet in front of her, and when I glance up, she’s watching me intently. Soft brown eyes fix on me, full lips slightly parted. Even with me in a subservient position, she seems vulnerable; defenseless.

Making a point to be gentle, I take her left foot in my hand and prop it on my knee to hold it steady. Her foot is perfectly pedicured, her toenails painted light pink. Fuck, even her feet are pretty.

My fingertips brush her skin as I carefully unfasten the delicate clasp, and she draws in a soft breath, goosebumps coasting down her bare legs. It’s hard to ignore how intimate this feels. It’s even harder knowing I can’t act on it.

“Are you sure no one will come downstairs?”

“No one ever does.” It’s an unspoken rule. The only exception is when we’re having a party and people are playing beer pong down here. Even then, I rarely allow it.

When I’m finished, I head for the closet to change. I tug off my jeans and T-shirt—which is still damp from her tears—and toss both in the hamper. Then I grab a pair of black athletic shorts and pull them on. Briefly, I debate whether I should put on a shirt too, but my bedroom runs stiflingly hot and I suspect Sera doesn’t care.

“Scale of one to ten,” she says, absentmindedly dragging her bare toes along the gray carpet. “Ten being the worst. How much of a mess do I look like right now?”

“Zero.”

A breathy laugh escapes her lips. “You’re sweet but you’re a liar.”

Her gaze shifts to my bedroom door, and her nose crinkles. She pushes to stand, still slightly off balance. “I need to wash my face. I feel icky.”

Taking Seraphina by the elbow, I help her to the bathroom. We both brush our teeth, then I wait outside while she finishes up before guiding her back to my room. Once I’m convinced she’ll be okay on her own for a minute, I jog upstairs to grab water for myself and a sports drink for her. Thankfully, the house is still otherwise empty. Maybe Chase and Dallas will crash at the girls’ place tonight. That would make handling this so much easier.

Handing her the plastic bottle, I lower to sit next to her on my bed. “Drink this.”

“Why?” She looks at me, her brows knit together.

“Because both cannabis and alcohol are diuretics, which—” Catching myself, I stop before I launch into a science lecture I’m sure she has no interest in hearing, least of all right now. “Just drink some for me, Ser. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“Fine.” She unscrews the cap and takes a few sips before resealing it. Her phone lights up from where it’s charging on the nightstand next to us, and a text from Abby appears.

I snort. “How nice of her to finally check in.” The words slip out before I can censor myself. I can’t help it—I’m pissed at her and her snake of a brother.

“Ty.”

“She had no idea where you were, Tink,” I say, softening my tone. The last thing I want to do is pick a fight with her on top of everything else. “What if some creep had found you?”

“It’s not like I was passed out.”

“Abby didn’t know that.”

She presses her lips together and studies me for a beat, scrutinizing me like a puzzle she’s trying to fit together. The annoyance on her face gives way to amusement.

“You like me,” she says in a singsong voice.

Obviously. But what can I do about that? Sweet fuck all, that’s what.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Her mouth tugs into a grin. “Because you like me.”

“Yeah, Ser. I do.”

A door slams upstairs. Someone barges into the kitchen, stomping like a goddamn elephant. The TV switches on, volume up high, followed by a burst of female laughter. Shit. Dallas and Chase just got home, and they brought Shiv and Bailey with them.

“Shit!” Seraphina clamps a hand over her mouth, frantically scanning the room like she’s looking for an escape route. “What the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t see my brother like this.”

There’s a loud crash above us that sounds like a kitchen chair tipping over. Based on the racket they’re making, they’re probably too drunk to realize she’s higher than the International Space Station, but I understand her concern. If I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t want to face them, either.

Racking my brain, I land on the only solution I can think of. “You can sleep down here. In the morning, change into your robe before you go upstairs and pretend you were in the shower. If anyone asks, say you got home after everyone else was asleep.”

“Yeah…” She nods slowly. “That’ll work, right?”

“I’m sure it will,” I tell her, turning away to set my water bottle on the nightstand.

It’s a lie to keep her calm. There’s a non-zero chance this sleepover could backfire. At least the basement door squeaks like a motherfucker. It annoys the shit out of me, but it makes for a good early warning system.

Seraphina pushes to stand, fanning herself. “Oh my god, it’s boiling in here.”

My mouth goes dry as she unzips her dress at the side and slips it off one shoulder, evidently unfazed that I’m standing right in front of her. I hate that I have to stop her, but I do.

“Whoa, Tink. Let me give you—’

She lets the fabric go and it drops to the floor, revealing her perfect, full breasts and a tiny pair of see-through black panties. My cock stirs as I suppress a groan, and I immediately tear my gaze away. Even from the split-second glance I got, the image has been permanently etched into my memory. Pert, rosy nipples pebbled and begging to be touched; the dip of her waist leading to the swell of her hips; and the outline of her pussy visible through the thin fabric of her underwear.

Under normal circumstances, this would be too much temptation to handle. Right now, it verges on torture.

“What’s the big deal?” Playfulness tinges her tone. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

No need to remind me. I only replay it in my head a hundred times a day.

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” she adds. “With how hot it is in here, I assumed clothing was optional.”

“In that case,” I manage, voice strained, “maybe we should both put on shirts.”

I open my closet and find a worn black concert T-shirt, handing it to her. It’s slightly faded, but it’s broken-in and the fabric is softer than the rest. I may or may not have fantasized about her wearing it, albeit under dramatically different circumstances. Then I grab a white T-shirt for myself. Fair’s fair, I guess.

Making no attempt to hurry, Seraphina leisurely pulls on my shirt while I channel every shed of my self-control to keep myself from looking directly at her. Once she’s dressed, I know I’m really in trouble. She looks just as hot in my shirt as she did naked.

My dick perks up again as she walks over to the bed with the dark fabric draped perfectly over her body, hitting at mid-thigh. He clearly hasn’t gotten the memo about sex being off the table tonight, and he’s in for a world of disappointment.

I pull back the covers, sliding over to make room for her. She crawls all the way to my side and wraps herself around my torso, clinging to me koala-style. Her neediness is one reason I’m glad she’s not around Rob right now. I’d never take advantage of her, but I doubt the same can be said for him.

“You smell nice.” She sighs, resting her cheek on my chest. “You always do.”

She always smells edible, but I can’t say that out loud.

It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t know what to do with my hands. Even snuggled up together like this, I’m trying to be respectful. Not touching her seems weird but touching her too much seems opportunistic. It might also give my overly optimistic cock the wrong idea. I settle for resting one palm on her shoulder, placing the other on the bed beside me.

“Could you pet me? Play with my hair, maybe?” Seraphina asks, her voice small.

Even high, she’s cute as hell.

Brushing the silky strands off her forehead, I rake my fingers through her rose-gold waves. She lets out a happy little sound, a cross between a sigh and a groan, nestling against me. Her full breasts press into my side, smooth legs intertwined with mine. This arrangement isn’t helping me fight my attraction to her. It’s become a losing battle at this point; like resisting gravity.

She sighs. “I feel a lot better than I did earlier.”

“I’m glad, Tink.”

“Do your hands get sore from playing? My dad’s always did. He used to have a lot of hand and wrist pain.” Seraphina takes my free hand in hers and presses her thumb into the fleshy part of my palm, massaging in small circles. An appreciative moan escapes the back of my throat. I should be the one taking care of her, but her touch is incredibly relaxing.

“Everything is always sore. Kinda goes with the territory.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “Bet I could make it feel better.”

I chuckle. “I’m sure you could.”

We lay in the dimly lit room while she tells me about her freshman year at Arizona and I tickle her arms at her request. Then she asks me random questions about being a goalie, like what possesses me to throw myself in the path of a puck traveling eighty to ninety miles per hour. That one’s a little hard to answer because I’m not too sure myself.

It feels like it’s only been a handful of minutes, but when I check the clock it’s been over an hour. Having anyone else wrapped around my body for this long would’ve made me claustrophobic. Hell, if she were anyone else, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d have made sure the other person wasn’t dying and left them to fend for themselves. I might’ve left them a bottle of water on my way out.

But she isn’t anyone else, and that’s the problem.

Her voice grows drowsy, and her responses start to come slower and slower. Just when I start to think she’s fallen asleep, she pipes up.

“Question twenty-two: Why don’t you date, Hades?”

Reasons line up in my brain. Not surprisingly, they all trace back to hockey.

There are countless factors beyond my control, like whether our defense plays well and how strong the other team’s offense is. What I can control is my level of effort and preparation, and it isn’t possible to focus on those the way I need to if I start adding other variables into the equation. I only have so much bandwidth.

Not to mention, a relationship would pose a serious risk of fucking with my mindset. Playing goal is one of the most psychologically demanding positions of any sport, and I don’t have the bandwidth to handle any additional stress. If Chase fumbles a pass or Dallas misses a shot, people may not even notice—but everyone knows when I make a mistake.

I clear my throat. “Too busy. No time.”

“You never know.” She yawns. “Maybe your taxi light just hasn’t come on yet.”

I have no idea what that means, but I’d gladly listen to her all night.