Page 17 of Hotshot

I manhandled the duvet from underneath Denny, chanting his name in a last-ditch effort to jostle him awake. No luck. I gave up and tucked the cover over him, then grabbed one of the pillows from the other side of the bed and tossed it at the sofa.

Yeah, it was going to be a long night.

I showered, changed into sweats and an old tee, and made a little nest on the glorified love seat, watching reruns ofThe Officebefore tuning into ESPN. Basketball news gave way tohockey highlights, followed by pre-playoff speculation about who had a shot at the Stanley Cup this year.

“Denver,”one analyst said.

“Absolutely. They’re my pick too. Minorsk and Trinsky on offense, Jelen on D, and Petrov in goal…yeah, I can see it,”his cohost agreed.“And they have Mellon.”

“The rookie is phenomenal. He’s persistent, fearless, inventive, and best of all, he’s passionate. It’s fun to watch him. The Condors drafted wisely. I’ve got a good feeling this kid is going to make his mark in the league in a big way.”

“No doubt about it. Next up, we have preseason baseball news and…”

I glanced over at the snoozing rookie phenom across the room.Thiswas the guy they were talking about…making his mark by drooling in my bed.

Wow.

I turned the television and lights off, and willed myself to sleep.

Four hours later, I awoke to a loud, rattling noise as if someone were trying to open a door. I sat up with a start and swung my legs around, blinking at the stream of illumination from the bathroom slicing across the carpet like a laser beam.

I reached for my cell to check the time—2:55 a.m.—and noticed a missed message from Dad.

How is it going?

A moment later, the telltale sound of retching echoed through the room.

I dropped my phone on the sofa and scrubbed my hand over my face.

“Denny?” I leaned against the doorjamb, out of his line of sight for privacy, wincing as he heaved.

I retrieved my last water bottle from the room and slipped into the bathroom.

Damn, he was a hot mess. Sweat glistened along his spine and curled his hair at the nape where his neck was bent, hovering over the toilet. No part of this was cute—even if he was a ridiculously sexy pro hockey player. I didn’t want anything to do with this train wreck.Walk away, Hank. You’re good at that.

I couldn’t, though.

And the crazy thing was that I probably should have been angry. He was upchucking, naked, inmyhotel bathroom, for fuck’s sake. But I wasn’t mad. I just wanted to fix this. Fix him.

“Ungh. Nnn, g’way,” Denny whined, cradling his head.

I left the water on the counter and ran cold water on a washcloth before handing it over. He grunted and yes…proceeded to get sick again. I held his hair like we were best friends and when he sat on his heels, I pressed the cool cloth to his sweaty forehead.

“Can you stand up?”

Denny mumbled something unintelligible as he slowly straightened and took the washcloth. He wiped his mouth, meeting my gaze in the mirror with his eyes half-closed. “Who are you?”

“Hank.”

“Oh. Hi, Hank.”

“Hi, Denny. How do you feel?”

He gave a humorless snort. “Bad. Do I know you?”

“We’re new friends.” I tugged his wrist and guided him into the room. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“Mm…’kay. Is this your house?”