Page 15 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

CHAPTER 15

FRAN

I groan as bright light burns through my eyelids, blinding me before I even wake up. My head throbs so bad, I’m sure it’s about to implode.

“Kill me now,” I croak.

Self-inflicted death is the only way to describe this level of hangover. In fact, I think I might still be drunk. I know they say the more expensive the wine, the less harsh the hangover, but FYI that’s some straight-up bullshit. An entire bottle of wine—regardless if it’s a six-dollar screw top from the corner liquor store, or a three-thousand-dollar vintage imported direct from the south of fucking France—is a guaranteed morning after regret.

My insides roil as I roll over, but then something hits me. Call it intuition mixed with a somewhat familiar scent that is both delicious and nauseating at the same time. My eyes fly open when I remember exactly where I am. Oh shit.

Against my better judgment, I sit up, immediately regretting my decision as I do, groaning as the sprawling hotel room starts to spin.

With one eye squeezed shut, I search the space around me, looking for what, I don’t even know.

“Hello?” My voice is broken and hoarse, throat like sandpaper.

“Robbie?” My stomach lurches and I choke back the acid on my tongue as his name leaves my lips.

But when I’m met with nothing but the gentle whir of the recycled air coming through the ducts, panic slowly starts to settle over me.

I notice an unopened bottle of water sitting on the nightstand. Perched against it is a note written on the hotel stationery. My brows knit together, and with another unattractive groan, I reach for the note with a trembling hand.

Had to leave.

I have a week of away games.

Let yourself out.

Robbie

I’m not saying that after last night Robbie and I should be besties, but I’m kind of confused by the abruptness of his note. I heave a sigh, tossing it onto the bed beside me. Grabbing the water, I gulp back more than half of it without coming up for air.

I’m still dressed in my jeans and Robbie’s jersey, and as far as I can tell, I slept alone if the makeshift bed of pillows and blankets lying on the sofa is anything to go by. How the hell did his six-foot-three frame even fit on that thing?

Dragging a hand over my face, I think back to last night, to what I remember.

I vaguely remember the phone call with Tadd. Oh God, those ramifications are going to be fun to deal with in the office on Monday.

I remember Netflix. I put on my latest obsession—one of those reality dating shows where they try to prove that looks aren’t a main factor when it comes to falling in love. Which is total bullshit, by the way; we all know looks matter, and I don’t care what anyone says. When Robbie wouldn’t stop talking, I finally gave up and switched on The Mighty Ducks for shits and gigs. But as Emilio Estevez’s stretch limousine slowly rolled onto the frozen lake, we lost interest in the film and actually started to get to know one another.

“Please tell me you did not try to dress like a puck bunny?” Robbie shook his head, covering his eyes with a hand while obviously trying not to laugh.

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “That’s what the Reddit posts were suggesting.”

Throwing his head back with laughter, he clutched his stomach as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“What is so damn funny?”

Grin still lingering, he steadied me with a serious look. “Keller, a puck bunny is—” he shook his head again, concealing another laughter bubble with a cough before clearing his throat “—a puck bunny is a chick who goes around trying to fuck hockey players.”

I took a moment to consider what he was telling me. And, I mean, I’m not one to yuck anyone’s yum, and if that’s how “puck bunnies” like to spend their free time, then good for them, but that is absolutely not me. The sheer thought of looking like I was trying to find a hockey player to rail made my cheeks flame, heat reaching all the way to the tips of my ears. I’d rather look like Adam Sandler.

“Oh, God. Please tell me I didn’t look like a puck bunny!” I gawked at Robbie, mortified.

Robbie chuckled. “Nah. You looked cute.”

I snapped my head up at that, cheeks still burning. Cute? Me? Surely I misheard him. Lowering one of my brows, I bit back a smug grin. “Did you just say I looked… cute ?”

“You’re drunk, Keller,” Robbie deadpanned, rolling his eyes at me before turning to focus on The Mighty Ducks .

Maybe I was a little tipsy, but I wasn’t a complete idiot. Robbie Mason called me cute. And sure, he’s gross and I hate him and all that, but I’m not denying that it did something to me, something I’d never felt before, deep down in the depths of my chest. And I had no idea how to process that reaction.

“Robbie Mason called me cute…” I whisper against the silence, brows pinched together as I try to make sense of last night’s grainy memories.

But then, another blurry flashback hits me like a Mack truck and I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming or throwing up because holy shit.

Lips. Kissing lips.

I blink hard, squeezing my eyes closed.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

Bile rises up the back of my throat.

I’m in full blown panic mode now as I try to comprehend exactly what happened. It’s fuzzy and pixelated at best, and there are some blackout moments for sure, so I can’t be entirely certain because, again, fucking wine. But I’m pretty sure I— oh God —I think I tried to kiss Robbie Mason last night.

And even worse than that—I think Robbie Mason turned me down.

I glance at the note. Fuck .

Suddenly the icy tone of his note, and the fact that he snuck out while I was passed out, makes complete sense. And I want to die.

I stare out the windows, at the sunlight peaking between the sky-scraping buildings of Midtown, and for a moment, I seriou sly consider taking a running jump and crashing through the glass. Because I am never going to live this down. I might as well jump. Plummeting fifty-eight stories to my death seems way less painful than dealing with the aftermath of whatever happened last night.

With another groan, I fall back against the mountain of pillows, throwing an arm over my eyes. But then that menacing bile gets the better of me, and I jump up and run to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before emptying the entire contents of my stomach.