Page 7 of Shots Fired

“Jesus Christ,” he drawls. “What did you do?” Sawyer sounds more concerned than he does pissed, and honestly, that kind of makes it worse.

I shake my head to no one. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my mess to clean up, and I’ll call you in the morning when I’ve got my head on straight.”

“Archer?!” he grumbles.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I repeat. “Enjoy your first night with your fiancée. Seriously, Collins will chew my ass up if I wreck it for you with my bullshit.”

Hitting End on the call, I pocket my phone and drop my gaze to the sidewalk.

Fuck me, Archer. You’re such a fucking idiot.

CHAPTER TWO

ARCHER

If the incessant knocking isn’t enough to wake me, my cell’s piercing alarm definitely is.

“All right, all right!” I announce, sitting up in bed and massaging my temples.

Last night’s statement about cutting alcohol in the offseason was about as believable to Kendra and Jack as it was to me.

Shortly after I ended the call with Sawyer, I decided my best course of action was to drink away the mess. After that, I have little to no recollection of the events that followed.

Ripping my phone from its charger cable, I hit Stop on the alarm and breathe a sigh of relief as silence descends on my bedroom, although it’s short-lived, as the knocking starts up again.

Running a hand over my face, I reluctantly slide out of bed and grab a pair of dark blue athletic shorts, my number thirty-three stamped in white over the right thigh. Whoever’s paying me a visit has zero intention of leaving.

“Give me a minute,” I drawl, staggering out into my hallway and heading for the front door.

“Give me a motherfucking minute,” I repeat as I unbolt the door and swing it open, fully expecting my pissed captain to be waiting on the other side.

“Fucking language,” a light tone replies as I wipe the sleep from my blurry eyes and focus on a set of white Converse, the left one tapping the ground impatiently. “That’s no way to greet a lady,” she continues, her unmistakable British accent cutting through my hangover.

Slowly, I lift my head to take her in and come face-to-face with Darcy Thompson, the last person I expected to find at my door, wearing a similar summer dress to the one she posted on her Instagram—only this one is light blue.

“I, umm … I’m sorry?” I reply awkwardly, way too focused on why she’s here in the first place. Has she ever been to my apartment? “How do you know where I live …” I trail off, leaning against the doorjamb and attempting a casual stance.

Jesus, she looks like a fucking dream.Myfucking dream. I look like I’m still half asleep.

I slap a palm against my cheek, checking I’m not still unconscious.

Darcy cocks her head to the side in question. Her long, thick eyelashes frame her narrowing eyes as she studies me intently, and it’s then that I notice the two coffees in front of her.

She offers the tray of coffees to me. “I figured you might need caffeine.”

“Umm, thanks,” I reply, lifting one of the takeout cups from the holder and stepping to the side, allowing her to enter.

She doesn’t move, choosing to peer down my hallway instead. “There aren’t any girls lurking, are there?”

I chuckle, but it’s fake. I’m still waiting for the time when her referencing my playboy reputation doesn’t cut through me likesteel. It’s amazing how you can stop hooking up with women for the better part of a year, but the opinions others have of you still remain regardless.

“Just me,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “Want to come in?”

Darcy looks down at the remaining coffee in her holder, twisting her plump lips to the side. “Do you promise to put some actual clothes on if I do?”

I smile, scratching at my bare chest. “At the risk of sounding like an asshole”—I lean down closer to her petite frame since I’m six-four without my skates on—“you’re the one who turned up at my place at the ass crack of dawn.”

Her eyes sparkle with mischief before her spare hand dips into the cream Marc Jacobs bag she always carries with her. Fetching out the Amex Black Card, she waves it between us. “And at the risk of being presumptuous, I assume your fat NHL wallet won’t be needing this then?” She lifts a quick shoulder as I stare at my credit card. “Fair enough. Macy’s and I can keep it company.”