Page 14 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Fallon

I t’s not even eight in the morning, but I’m starving and there’s no way my stomach is going to wait three hours until I get to Gran and Grandad’s for brunch.

Crawling out of bed, I stretch and then pull my unruly hair into a topknot. I don’t bother putting in my hearing aids. There’s no way anyone else is up at this hour, and since I have to wear them when I’m out in the world, I’m happy to ditch them whenever possible.

Ducking into my ensuite bathroom, I take care of business, wash up, and then head toward the kitchen in search of food.

I’m a terrible cook, so I’ll steer clear of anything that requires a stove top, but I bought frozen waffles earlier this week, and I’m praying they’re still in the freezer.

All those years of Christian school better be worth something.

My bedroom is across from Liza’s at the back of the house, but it’s a short walk past the first-floor laundry room and into the kitchen.

There’s a light on, and I’m wondering if someone else is up—and if they’ve made coffee. In all the chaos of the party ending, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if no one thought to turn it off.

My bare feet hit the cold tile as I try to remember if I saw syrup in the fridge or not. I reach for the door handle, and that’s when I notice Ollie over by the table, waving at me.

I don’t feel like starting my morning with a fight, but he seems especially agitated, so I give him my attention. Dammit. That means breakfast will have to wait. Shutting the refrigerator door, I take a step toward him.

But it’s too late.

At the exact moment I see him sign, “ Stop !”, I feel a sharp pain slice through my foot.

I hiss in agony. I’m tempted to take the two remaining steps toward the table so I can sit down and see how bad it is, but that’s when I notice the broom in Ollie’s hand.

This floor is clearly a minefield, so I back up, hopping back to safer ground as carefully as possible.

Balancing on my uninjured foot, I slide myself onto a barstool to see if it’s as bad as I think it is. Before I can psych myself up to assess the damage, I see Ollie kneeling in front of me.

I can’t lie; this is an image I could get used to. Minus the sore bloody foot, of course.

Ollie’s hands are gentle, but I’m white-knuckling the edge of the counter because this fucking hurts. I chance a quick look and while I don’t see any giant shards of glass, it feels like someone stabbed me in the sole of my foot with a very sharp, very small knife.

Ollie taps my leg, forcing our eyes to meet. “ Do you have a first aid kit? ” he asks, his lips moving as he signs.

I shake my head and sign the word for bandages. That’s really all I have in the way of medical supplies.

Ollie nods decisively before signing to let me know he’ll be right back.

I reach for my phone before realizing that it’s charging on my nightstand.

But before I can get too bored, Ollie’s back and scooping me up in his arms. I don’t even protest because my foot hurts like hell, and because Ollie’s embrace is warm and strong.

Don’t tell anybody that last part, though. That secret is just between you and me.

He carries me into my bedroom and for a second, my mind betrays me and escapes to an alternate universe—an upside-down world where Ollie hauling me around is a common occurrence. A place and time where my bedroom is our bedroom.

That’s nonsense, of course. Even if our first meetup hadn’t ended in disaster, it’s a pretty big leap to assume we’d have gone from hockey party hookup to happily ever after.

Still, a girl can dream, especially if said daydream involves chiseled abs, clear blue eyes, sandy blond hair, and more swagger than any one man has a right to claim.

He’s six feet tall and muscular. Ollie doesn’t just look like he hits the gym; he looks like he could kick somebody’s ass after working out for hours.

Ollie Jablonski’s hot as hell, and he knows it.

Right now, though, as he gently deposits me on the bathroom vanity, I can’t help but notice that every ounce of his focus is trained on me. He’s not preening or posturing. He’s not cracking jokes.

He’s…serious. And I can’t handle it.

I’m fine , I sign, dismissing him.

He looks at me, then at my foot, then back at me. “ You’re bleeding .”

Picking up the little bin of supplies, I wave it in front of him.

“ You brought me half a drugstore. I’ll be fine and I’ll return these later.

” I sign the words, but I don’t fully look at him.

I can’t. This sweet, tender, somber side of Ollie is more than I can take.

If he keeps putting his hands on me and that tender expression stays on his face, I’ll either kick that serene smile all the way to next week, or I’ll let myself surrender to feelings better left buried.

Why are you fighting me on this? he asks. It’s my fault you got hurt, so just let me help you.

I shake my head. “ It’s not your fault. It’s Blue’s. And really, it was an accident, so it’s no one’s fault. ”

Ollie tries to interrupt, but I wave him off. I’m fine. Just let me use the little emergency kit and I’ll be good to go.

He says nothing. I can’t believe he’s giving up this easily. Ollie and I are pretty evenly matched in the stubbornness department, but I’m glad he’s doing as I asked and leaving me alone.

Until I realize he isn’t.

Instead of leaving, he’s just leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed.

What the hell? I ask.

In response, he just shrugs. Go ahead, Fallon. Take care of your bleeding wound .

I wince at the image his words convey. My stomach already feels queasy, and I haven’t even peeked at my injuries except for a quick glance in the kitchen. Because…yeah. Blood is not my thing. Anything more severe than a paper cut is way above my pay grade, and dammit, Ollie knows my weakness.

He knows practically everything about me because he’s one of my brother’s closest friends and because he loves to hang out at our house over holiday breaks and summer vacations.

He was at our beach house last June when my sister sliced her thumb while chopping veggies for dinner, and I nearly passed out.

But that was months ago. I’ve changed.

Okay, that’s total bullshit. I haven’t changed a bit, and I doubt I’ll ever outgrow my aversion to blood, but I’m also certain I’ll never get over my aversion to Ollie Jablonski, so I’m in a bit of a pickle.

And he knows it, the fucker.

Go on , I sign. I’ve got this .

He sighs and the bunching of his muscles does funny things to me. Why the hell couldn’t he have put a shirt on when he ran up to get the first aid kit? The guys in this house walk around half naked at least half of the time, and I don’t pay any attention. But a shirtless Ollie is hard to ignore.

You hate me that much ? he asks, and I swear he looks positively wounded. There’s glass in your damn foot and I’m such scum that I can’t even remove it for you?

I don’t need your help , I repeat. I can do it myself .

That’s a lie and we both know it. With my luck, you’ll puke at the sight of your own blood, and I’ve already cleaned up vomit this morning, and I really don’t want to do it again.

Then leave .

Ollie shakes his head and the smile he shoots me would make a lesser girl swoon. Fine, it makes me swoon, too, but I hide it with a scowl.

I’m not like Pete , Ollie signs, leaving me confused.

Okay … I answer, doing my best to ignore the throbbing in my foot.

I love his girlfriend, Claire, but she’s mean as hell. He fucking soaks it up. It’s some kind of foreplay for those two, but it’s not my kink .

I roll my eyes in his direction before signing, I guarantee this will come as a shock to you, but I don’t care what your kinks are or what they aren’t.

You sure about that ? he challenges.

Unless you get off on blood, you should leave because I’m about to perform surgery on my own foot .

His gaze narrows. Is that really what you want? For me to leave so you can get to work ?

What I want is to go back in time and put on some fucking shoes before I walked into the kitchen. What I want is a breakfast of waffles with butter and syrup. And some coffee. But all that will have to wait until I’ve taken care of my foot, and to do that, I need you to leave .

Ollie stills for a moment, and I wait for him to raise his hands and begin talking, but instead, he turns and walks out the door.

Damn him.

Damn him for looking so good. And damn him for doing what I asked.

It takes a full five minutes before I give up on summoning my courage and hop over to my bed.

I can admit when I need help—as long as it’s not from Ollie—so I pick up my phone and pull up my contacts.

Fallon: On a scale of 1-10, how squeamish are you?

Within thirty seconds, I have my answer.

Liza: -5. Why? What did the boneheads do now?

Fallon: It’s not them. It’s me.

Liza: If you punched Blue in the face, I’ll do your laundry for a week. And if you kicked him in the balls, I’ll do it until you graduate.

Fallon: Haha, not today, but I did step on glass and I’m a solid 167 on the squeamish scale, so…

Liza: I’ll be there in a minute.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m glass-free, all bandaged up, and in awe of my new roommate. Liza DeWalt could teach me a thing or two about being a badass, and I’m a willing student, though I’ll definitely leave the first aid to her capable hands.

She said she’d be happy to return the supplies to Ollie, but I’d rather do it so I can gloat. I may not be as brave as I’d like when it comes to bodily fluids, but I’m resourceful, and that’s got to count for something.

Unfortunately, Ollie’s not in his room, or at least, he’s not answering when I knock. Maybe that’s for the best. The less Ollie and I see of each other, the easier it’s going to be to live in this house.

After dropping the little caddy of medical supplies by his door, I make my way back into the kitchen in search of breakfast. I was hungry when I first woke up, but now I’m starving.

I’m prepared to brave the floor this time, thanks to my slides, but I’m unprepared for what I see waiting for me on the counter.

It’s a breakfast tray complete with a stack of waffles, a mug of warm syrup, a cup of coffee, and an empty plate with a post-it that reads “ no blueberries, because you hate them and I ate them (again) ”.

There’s even a flower in a vase. Well, it’s a paper flower in an empty beer can, but my heart defrosts just a little at the sight.

Immediately, I steel myself. Ollie Jablonski may be charming.

He may be sweet. He may be a-fucking-dorable sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I like him.

My fate where Ollie is concerned was sealed two years ago when I saw him across the room at a party that I begged my brother to let me tag along to.

Our eyes connected. We exchanged flirty glances.

When he found me on the dance floor, our bodies moved together.

We didn’t make any promises. We didn’t even exchange names.

When I found an empty bedroom, I figured we could have some fun.

I went back to the dance floor to search for him, but he was gone.

It took me a few minutes to track him down, but when I did, I found him with his pants around his ankles and some girl’s mouth superglued to his dick.

Ollie Jablonski is a player, and that’s something I need to remember.

But even I have to admit that he makes a damn good breakfast.