Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(36)

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When I walk into the dressing room the next morning, the sight before me shouldn’t be a surprise. But it is. Because Jason shouldn’t be here, yet here he is, standing there cleaning out his stall while the rest of the team gets changed for practice.

I guess I figured he’d sneak in at some off hour and do it without an audience. Or hell, even make one of the PAs clear it out for him and ship his shit to him. I haven’t seen his face since the suspension started, and I’d started to convince myself that I never would.

“Hey, good luck in Wisconsin,” one of the rookies says to him.

Jason nods. “It’s all good.”

“You’re in a good mood,” someone else says.

Jason chuckles and continues packing up his hockey bag, tossing in a pair of old socks. “I’m still going to be playing hockey, even if it is in the minors for a bit. Plus, I got laid this morning, and then had a long shower and a strong cup of coffee. Life is good, man.”

My nostrils flare, and I tighten my hand around the roll of athletic tape I’m holding.

He’s already fucking someone else?

What woman in her right mind would want anything to do with his sorry ass?

He could be bluffing—everything else in his life is falling apart at the moment. He lost his girlfriend, his spot on the pro roster, and has been disgraced by the media.

Even if he isn’t bluffing, I really don’t give a rat’s ass. He’s done hurting Ana as far as I’m concerned. And she won’t hear about this from me. Somewhere along the way, protecting her has become something I do on instinct.

And I’ll keep right on doing it, no matter the cost.





15




* * *





Deep Breaths





Ana



“Ana?”

My eyes shoot open, the soft lighting of the massage parlor’s ceiling slowly coming into focus. There’s a carpet-like texture against my skin . . . wait, yep, I’m on the floor.

What the hell?

“Are you okay?” Almost in slow motion, Georgia slides into my vision. She’s at my side, one hand on my shoulder and the other digging in her pocket.

“What happened?” I ask, my brow furrowed as I try to figure out what the hell happened. An older woman is half lying, half leaning over the massage table, staring at me with wide eyes, and my hands are slick with oil. Oh shit.

“You collapsed during a session,” Georgia mutters, worry coloring her features. “Damn, I must have left my phone at the desk. I’ll get it. How are you feeling? Should I call an ambulance? Yep, I should call an ambulance.”

“No, no.” I object, shaking my head a little too aggressively, which causes my vision to go hazy again. Wow, I’m so light-headed. “It’s just a dizzy spell. I’m okay. I can finish . . .” I make a move to get up, and decide immediately that’s not going to happen and sit back on the floor.

“Don’t even think about moving just yet,” Georgia says, her tone stern.

I nod, dropping my head into my hands. “You’re right. I don’t feel so great. I may need to go home.”

“Okay, I’ll drive you. Devon! DEVON!” Georgia shouts the owner’s name until he rushes over, his expression panicked.

“What is it? What happened?” Devon gasps when he sees me. “Ana? You’re so pale!”

“I think I need to go home,” I manage to say, but Georgia cuts in.

“She collapsed mid-massage. I have no idea what happened, but I’m going to drive her home and get her settled. Can you have Maggie take care of this super-understanding client while you watch the front desk?” She nods toward the woman on the table, who may be paler than me at this point. “Ana’s appointments need to be rescheduled, and my next appointment too.”

“Of course.” Devon nods, frantic. “Please, go. Do you need anything before you leave, Ana? Mints? Orange juice?”

“There’s orange juice here?” Georgia asks incredulously.

“In my personal fridge, yes.”

Georgia exchanges a look with me, then shrugs. “Sure, we could use some orange juice.”

Getting me off the floor and out the door isn’t exactly easy.

“Well, if I knew passing out would get me special access to Devon’s personal fridge, I would have done that ages ago,” Georgia mutters.

I snicker, then wince. Each step makes my head spin like a dang windmill. It takes a bit, but Georgia helps me into her car with a promise to retrieve my car later today.

“Okay, what the fuck was that?” she asks once we’re pulling out of the parking lot. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, taking the tiniest sip of orange juice from the bottle. “I think maybe I just didn’t eat enough this morning.”

“What did you eat?”

“Oatmeal. A banana.”

“That seems like enough,” she says, and she’s right.

“I don’t know what it is.” I squeeze my eyes closed, willing myself not to barf in Georgia’s car. The same car that she so kindly used to help move my things just days ago. I can’t puke.

She must sense my stress because her tone changes drastically.