The Deal(74)

She snorts. “Does that make you my prince?”

“Damn straight.” I duck into the bathroom and rummage around in the medicine cabinet until I find some ibuprofen. Then I pour a glass of water and head back to the bed, sitting at the edge as I force Hannah to sit up. “Take two of these and chug the water,” I order, slapping the two pills into her palm. “Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning.”

Shoving pills and water down someone’s throat is nothing new to me. I do it often with my teammates. Dean, in particular, who takes drinking to a whole new level, and not just on his birthday.

Hannah obediently follows my instructions before collapsing on the mattress again.

“Good girl.”

“I’m hot,” she mumbles. “Why is it so hot in here?”

My heart literally stops beating when she starts wiggling out of her leggings.

The material snags on her knees, eliciting a loud groan from her. “Garrett!”

I have to chuckle. Taking pity on her, I lean in to help her out, peeling the pants off her legs and doing my best to ignore the smooth, silky skin beneath my fingertips.

“There you go,” I say thickly. “Better?”

“Mmm-hmmm.” She reaches for the hem of her shirt.

Sweet Jesus.

I tear my gaze off her and stumble toward my dresser to find her something to sleep in. I grab an old T-shirt, take a deep breath, and turn around to face her.

Her shirt is off.

Fortunately, she’s wearing a bra.

Unfortunately, the bra is black and lacy and see-through, and I have a perfect view of her nipples behind that transparent fabric.

Don’t look. She’s drunk.

I heed the stern internal voice and forbid my gaze from lingering. And since there’s no way in hell I can take off her bra without coming in my pants, I shove the T-shirt over her head and hope she’s not one of those girls who hates sleeping in her bra.

“I had so much fun tonight,” Hannah babbles happily. “See? I might be broken but I can still have fun.”

I freeze. “What?”

But she doesn’t answer. Her bare legs kick at the blanket and then she slides beneath it, rolling over on her side with a tiny sigh.

She passes out within seconds.

I battle a rush of unease as I turn off the light. She’s broken? What the hell does that mean?

Frowning, I slip out of the bedroom and quietly close the door behind me. Hannah’s cryptic words continue to echo in my head, but I don’t have the opportunity to dwell on them because when I go downstairs, Logan and Dean waste no time dragging me into the kitchen for a round of shots.

“It’s his birthday, dude.” Logan says when I object. “You’ve gotta take a shot.”

I cave in and accept the shot glass. The three of us clink our glasses together, slugging back the whiskey. The alcohol burns my throat and heats my stomach, and I welcome the hot buzz that floats through my body. This whole night, I’ve been…off. That stupid song. Hannah’s tears at the bar. The confusing way she makes me feel.

I’m raw and on edge, and when Logan pours me another drink, this time I don’t object.

After the third shot, I’m no longer thinking about how confused I am.

After the fourth one, I’m not thinking at all.


It’s two-thirty in the morning when I finally drag my drunken ass upstairs. The party has all but fizzled. Only Dean’s puck bunnies remain, lying on the couch with him in a tangle of bare arms and legs. I pass the kitchen and spot Tucker asleep at the counter, his hand still curled around an empty beer bottle. Logan had disappeared into his bedroom a while ago with a cute brunette, and as I walk past his room, I hear the kind of groans and moans that tell me he’s VBF.

My bedroom is bathed in shadows when I walk inside. I blink a few times, and my eyes adjust to the darkness to find a Hannah-shaped lump on the bed. I’m too tired to brush my teeth or follow my own hangover-prevention regimen—I just strip to my boxers and climb in next to Hannah.

I try to be as quiet as possible as I get comfortable, but the rustling of the sheets causes Hannah to stir. A soft moan ripples through the darkness, and then she rolls over and a warm hand presses against my bare chest.

I stiffen. Or rather, my chest does. Down below, I’m softer than pudding. That’s whiskey dick for you, which is damn sad considering I only had five shots. Man. Me and alcohol really don’t mix.

Even if I wanted to take advantage of Hannah right now, I’d be totally useless. And shit, that’s a totally repulsive thing to think, because I’d never take advantage of her. I’d rip my own dick off before forcing myself on someone.