All the Way (Hot Jocks #2)(5)

“If you touched her, Owen, so help me God . . .” Elise plants one hand firmly on her hip.

“I didn’t touch her,” I croak out, shaking my head.

“Then what happened?”

“She wanted to . . .” I swallow. Nope. Can’t say that either. “She touched me—but just for a second.” Well, ten to be exact.

Elise lets out a noise of angry surprise. “What the hell? Why would you let her do that?”

“I know. Fuck. I shouldn’t have. But she said something about not wanting to be afraid anymore, and that she trusts me.”

Elise frowns and then sighs. “Oh, Becca.”

“It’ll be okay. Hopefully, she won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

At least, that’s what I’m banking on.





2




* * *





Tequila = Truth Serum





Becca



After getting a lift home, I’m now at one of my favorite parks in Seattle. A place I hoped might calm me. Sadly, I have no such luck. Instead, I’m going through the motions, forcing myself to do my usual five-mile run.

And judging by the way the contents of my stomach are sloshing around and rebelling at that fact, I’m about to puke. Either from drinking an obscene amount of tequila last night or from the memory of molesting my bestie. Take your pick.

My lungs burn and my heart is in my throat, but I press on, pushing my legs faster, even though I know I can’t outrun the memory of what I did last night. Adele sings in my ears about lost love, and my chest heaves as I suck in painful gasps.

I haven’t been loved and experienced bone-crushing heartbreak like Adele, so I don’t know the agony of her loss, but I’ve been trying to put myself out there and date. I’m twenty-five years old, and while I don’t mind being single and have a great group of friends and a job I love, of course I’d like to find someone who makes me weak in the knees. Someone who makes me want to sing at the top of my lungs about love, just like Adele does.

I’m too old to be this inexperienced with love and relationships, and far too young to be so jaded about both. Apparently, I’m quite the freaking mess.

As I run, my mind wanders to Tom from Tinder and Sam from Soul Mates Inc.

Okay, those aren’t really their names, but it makes it sound more fun.

Their actual names are Bryce and Alec. I’ve been seeing both casually for a couple of weeks now. Coffee dates and cocktails and a walk in the park, benign things like that. They’re both perfectly nice, capable men with real jobs and kind eyes, guys I wouldn’t mind taking home to meet my mother. And yet I freeze up like a garden hose in a Minnesota winter when they so much as lean in for a kiss or try to initiate any kind of physical contact.

I keep telling myself that I’m normal, that I’ve healed and moved on . . . but that lie is getting harder and harder to believe since the idea of physical intimacy with a man scares the living daylights out of me.

Enter last night’s drunken escapades, brought to you by tequila and her best friend, poor judgment.

My cheeks burn at the memory of the things I said to Owen. Fucking Owen, who gets more ass than a toilet seat. One of my best friends in the entire city of Seattle who just so happens to be a pro athlete with endless patience and a stockpile of dirty jokes. As the goalie for the Ice Hawks team, he also has nerves of steel. And to his credit, when I started talking all kinds of crazy, he barely even flinched.

“If you wanted to take a break from all the hookups and help me get back in the saddle . . .”

He probably thought I was kidding. A girl can hope.

Yes, he’s attractive, and worst of all, he knows it. He’s a playboy extraordinaire, and I had no business risking our friendship by asking him to whip out his junk—and for what? Some stupid little experiment?

I’m not going to let myself think about his man parts right now. My despair doesn’t deserve to take a back seat to all that miraculous manhood in his pants. But, holy hell, it really was spectacular.

Deep breaths, Becs.

I crank my music louder, pressing my earbuds tightly into my ears as I push myself faster along the asphalt path. I don’t even like to run. Yet here I am every weekend, counting down the miles until I can be done.

Okay, maybe I like it a little bit. At least, I like the fact that my five-mile runs afford me a doughnut on occasion and all the Chinese food my pocketbook can handle. And those little heart-shaped cookies with the frosting sold in the bakery by my office. Those little bastards are why I run.

That and the chance to clear my head, apparently.

My running app announces that I’ve passed mile two, at an embarrassing pace of 12:06 per mile, but whatever, at least I haven’t thrown up my coffee yet. I’m counting that as a win. Possibly my only win on this dark and awful day.

A shadow of someone coming up behind me catches my attention. The bulky shadow grows larger and I edge to the right, making room to be passed—it’s not like my pace will be hard to overtake. Any serious runner would whiz right by me. But the shadow slows, falling into step next to me. I glance over and stop in midstride.

“Owen?” Breathless, I pant out his name in complete shock.

He’s never run with me before, so he’s literally the last person I expected to see. I assumed he’d be sleeping off his own hangover at best, or at worst, ignoring me until the zombie apocalypse hits.