Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Van

I wake with a groan, feeling the telltale ache that comes with hotel travel. Even though the Appies' accommodations got a major upgrade in the last eighteen months, a hotel bed is a hotel bed is a hotel bed.

And a hotel couch is a hotel couch.

I'm sprawled out shirtless on a sofa, one knee bent and the other leg dangling over the side, my foot flat on the floor. I barely fit—why am I sleeping here? My jaw aches and as I blink, I can feel swelling in one eye and the other cheek.

Did I get in a fight last night? I don't even remember the game.

Do we have a game today? What city are we in?

Is that coffee I smell?

How did I not make it into bed?

The answers, along with memories, come to me in a rush when I hear a voice say, "Morning, sunshine. Nice hair."

I glance over to see Amelia, sitting cross-legged with a paper cup on the definitely not king-size bed. Which is close enough to the couch that I could nudge her with my foot.

Her honey hair is down and wild, like she got out of bed, gave her head a good shake, and called it good. She's fresh-faced without even a hint of makeup and wearing the Batman pajama pants and black tank she picked out at Walmart last night.

Not gonna lie—it's a good look on her.

I rub the grit from my eyes, not even bothering to straighten out my hair, which likes to do its own thing in the mornings. "What time is it?"

My voice still sounds like it's been through a paper shredder, which is about how I sound for the first hour I'm up every morning. Usually, no one's around to hear it, and I feel slightly self-conscious. At least it didn't crack.

"A little after ten."

Amelia laughs at my expression, which is probably horrified. I can't remember the last time I slept this late, even on days we don't have morning practice. A little coffee sloshes over the paper cup she's holding.

"Oops." She lifts the mug and licks the droplets of coffee right off the side. I can't look away from her mouth.

Taking a deep inhale through my nose, I squeeze my eyes closed. It's far too early to be thinking the kinds of things I'm thinking about the coach's daughter .

Those three words are as effective as any cold shower. Or they should be. Repeating this phrase in my head worked most of yesterday.

Up until the moment I almost kissed her in the ocean.

That memory slams into me with the weight of a building collapse. I can hardly believe I let things get to that point. It wasn't my intention.

One minute we were playing, and I was feeling good about making her smile after a terrible day. I didn't realize the urge to kiss her was coming until I found my eyes dropping to her lips and my whole body swaying toward her.

If Amelia hadn't said something, I might have actually done it. I might have kissed her.

And while this memory should serve as a cautionary tale to me in the bright light of morning, it doesn't. Instead, thinking about the almost kiss, about the way Amelia felt in my arms only makes the blood cycle faster through me. It's a challenge to keep my gaze from her mouth as she lifts the cup to her lips.

I am in so. Much. Trouble.

"Your face doesn't look horrible," Amelia says.

I open my eyes. "Best compliment I've had all day."

She laughs, golden hair dancing around her shoulders. "I just mean, you're a little swollen, but the black eye isn't so bad."

"Yet," I say. "Tomorrow it will look worse. Trust me."

My phone buzzes on the little table next to the couch. It's plugged into the charger I bought last night. I sit up, reaching for it. Needing a distraction.

And … it's Coach Davis. What perfect, poetic, terrible timing.

I don't answer, though I'll need to call him back soon. Can't have him imagining the worst. Or knowing the reality. Which means maybe calling him back after we figure out this rooming situation. If Amelia can move into the suite she and her ex booked, then I'll stay here, keeping my separate rooms promise to Coach.

"Are the guys texting you again?" Amelia asks.

They probably are, but I still have their thread muted so I can have some amount of peace. "It's your dad."

"Oh." She takes a measured sip of her coffee. "I'm sure Morgan told him I'm with you. Think he'll freak out?"

This is the perfect opportunity to tell her that not only was her father on board, but asked me to come.

I'm not sure why I don't.

Coach said not to, but it's not for fear of him that I don't tell Amelia. I mean, letting him think I'm helping him out is a chance to get in his better graces. But I've survived being his least liked player this long. He didn't take me off my line for personal reasons—it wasn't until my performance started sucking. And there's no way he could have guessed it had to do with my complicated feelings about his daughter's upcoming wedding.

Ultimately, I think I don't want Amelia to think I'm here because of her dad. Like some kind of bodyguard slash babysitter who was hired to do what I'm doing.

I'm here for her. That's it.

I don't want her overthinking or rethinking my every move, doubting my reasons for being here. Doubting my words. Doubting me .

"If so, I'll handle it. Is there any more coffee where that came from?" I grumble, needing caffeine about as much as I need a new direction for our conversation to go in.

"Coming right up!"

Amelia's too-bright voice tells me she is the most morning of morning people.

Of course she is. The sunshine to my dark morning cloud. I'm glad, though, happy she seems to have been wrong about waking up with a painful crash into her new reality.

She sets her mug down and hops off the bed and into the bathroom, where I guess the coffee pot is? I didn't notice much last night aside from how small this room is.

After swimming, we took turns changing in the bathroom, where I also took a cold shower just as a reminder of where my brain needs to stay. When I emerged, wearing the athletic shorts I'm using as pajamas, Amelia had her back turned to me and was already asleep. Locating a coffee pot was the last thing on my mind.

"How do you take your coffee?" she calls. "No—wait. Let me guess." She leans out of the bathroom door, tapping her lips with a finger. "Black."

"Close." I make her wait a few seconds, mostly because I like seeing her riled up. When her eyes narrow and she starts drumming her fingers on the door fame, I answer. "Two creams, no sugar. Maybe three creams."

Amelia whistles. "Three creams? Wow. Want some coffee with your milk?"

"It's the perfect ratio. How do you drink yours?"

"Black. One sugar in the raw. If it's available."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's one choice you can make."

"Shut up, Mr. Cream."

"That is not going to be my nickname, Mills."

"We'll see. You gave me one without asking how I felt about it."

"I thought you liked Mills."

Instead of answering, she ducks into the bathroom again, where I hear the last drips landing in the cup. Didn't she say she liked it? Did I overstep? But when she comes back out, her smile is smug, like she knew I was suffering while I waited for her answer.

"Don't worry," she tells me, handing me my coffee. "I love it."

Relieved, I settle back on the couch, hearing a few loud pops in my back. Amelia returns to the bed fluffing a pillow in her lap as she sips her coffee.

"Good. Now we can work on finding one for me that I approve of."

"We'll see, Mr. Cream."

" No ."

"I'm open to your suggestions," she says with a laugh.

"Romeo? Casanova? Handsome?" I tease.

She makes a buzzer sound. "No way. I could always just go with Vanity."

I groan. "Not that. Please not that."

"Okay, hotshot." Her eyes widen and she bounces a little on the bed, sending more coffee dripping over the rim of her cup. This time she doesn't lick it off. "That's it! Hotshot. Like Speed ." When I stare blankly, she gives me an incredulous look. "You know—the movie with Sandra Bullock."

"Is that the one with the witches?"

"No." She looks aghast.

I yawn. "Was she the FBI agent pretending to be a beauty pageant contestant?"

"No—that's Miss Congeniality ."

"Hm. Then I don't think I saw Speed ."

Amelia's eyes go wide. "You've never seen it? Are you serious?"

"When did it come out?"

"Sometime in the nineties? I don't know exactly." When I shake my head, she leaves the coffee and rummages around the room until she finds the remote. "We should watch it."

"What—like now?"

"Why not? I'm sure we can find it streaming somewhere."

I take a sip of coffee. It tastes like what you'd expect from coffee made in a bathroom. "We're staying at a fancy resort and you want to watch a movie?"

A flush rises in her cheeks, and I feel bad about my comment. I also realize she has freckles. I'd never noticed them, and I wonder if she covered them with makeup the times I'd seen her before. They're light, barely visible now that she's blushing, but they cover her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

"I mean, we can do whatever we want," she says, looking down. "And you don't have to hang out with me all the time."

"What if my only plans for this trip are to hang out with you every moment of every day?"

The pink in her cheeks deepens, but now she smiles. "I'd be okay with that. But I don't want you to get sick of me."

"I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Mills. But first order of business: we should call about your luggage and also see about getting your suite."

"Was the couch terrible? I tried to make you take the bed!"

I wasn't about to make her sleep on the couch. Even if it would have been a better fit for her than me. "Nonsense. I'm fine. But I wouldn't be opposed to booking a massage at some point."

"That can be arranged."

We decide to split up. I stay in the room and call the airline about her luggage, while she heads down to the lobby—still in pajamas, which I love—to ask about the suite she and Drew booked for tonight.

After I get hung up on twice and end up leaving a voice message I'm sure no one will ever hear, I pull a shirt on and head down to see what's keeping Amelia. Even if the reservation was in her ex's name, the suite will likely be at least available tonight.

Or not.

"You already booked the suite?" Amelia sounds half a breath away from pure panic. "How is that possible? I was supposed to be staying there tonight. We had a reservation."

This morning, the woman with the tight bun has been replaced with a guy who looks barely old enough to vote.

"We did keep the reservation," he says, clearing his throat and tapping on the computer keys.

"But you didn't ," Amelia says as I reach her. "Obviously." She shakes her head at me as if silently saying, can you believe this? Honestly, with her luck the past twenty-four hours, I can believe it. "I'm right here, and you're telling me the suite is taken. So, how did you honor the reservation? Please. Explain."

Her voice is almost banshee-like and she punctuates her words by tapping her finger on the counter. I step closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She relaxes into me with a soft exhale, and it instantly makes me feel better.

"Obviously, there's some confusion," I say.

The boy-man stops tapping at the computer and cracks his knuckles before answering. "As I've previously stated several times, the honeymoon suite is currently occupied."

I can feel Amelia coiling tightly with tension. Hoping to prevent a total nuclear meltdown, I angle her away from the counter as I lean closer.

"We understand someone was in the room last night. But check out is at"—I glance around, finally spotting a small sign behind the counter— "eleven. So, once the occupants check out, she would like the room she reserved."

"Months ago," Amelia adds. "We reserved it months ago."

The boy-man nods slowly, with exaggerated patience. "Yes. There was a reservation. And while I can't give out any information about guests, the person who made the reservation just checked in early."

Amelia and I both go still, and it's as though twin light bulbs go off above our heads. The honeymoon suite is occupied— by the person who reserved it .

As in, Drew the Douchebag Groom.

"Check-in isn't until three," Amelia whispers, as though this is the most unbelievable part of all this.

Or maybe the only thing she can process right now is hotel policy. Because thinking about everything else is worse .

The boy-man behind the counter has the decency to look apologetic.

I'm not sure how this is possible, but it sounds like Drew managed to swoop in—or fly in, I guess—and claim the suite already this morning. How? Why?

But it doesn't matter. Only two things do.

The first is that we're going to be stuck in the tiny room with all the nearly combustible tension between us.

The second is that Amelia's ex fiancé is here. In this hotel. Right now.

Coach had the right idea throwing a chair through a window. I'd like to do the same thing now. Except maybe substitute Drew for a chair. I imagine how satisfying it would be to toss him through a window or a wall, leaving a douche-shaped outline like in a cartoon.

"I wish you had run him over," Amelia says softly. She sounds like she's in shock.

I wish I'd agreed to her movie idea. It's way too early for all this.

It's also too early for anything worse, and when the boy-man's eyes go wide, focusing on something—or someone —behind us, I know something absolutely worse is happening.

There aren't enough curse words in the world to use as Amelia and I turn to see Drew walking out of the elevator. He's wearing swim trunks, one hand holding a hotel towel held under one arm … and he has the other wrapped around Amelia's cousin.

I'm striding across the lobby before logical and rational thoughts can stop me, ignoring Amelia as she calls my name. I don't stop until I reach the Douche.

There are a few gasps from people nearby as I grab him by the back of the shirt collar, yank him away from Amelia's cousin, and haul him inside the elevator just before the doors close. Barely giving the panel a glance, I hit a random button near the top.

Then I let go of Drew's collar and step into his space.

"Hey—" he starts.

"You do not get to speak right now. What you're going to do is listen very carefully. I will not repeat myself. But I will make myself clear without words if you don't hear me the first time. Got it?"

Drew opens and closes his mouth, but as I step closer, looming over him, he nods. But he's glaring, looking like a kid who got caught lying to his parents and is trying to blame them for his bad behavior. Whatever. I can't make him do the work he needs if he wants to be a decent human.

But I can make him do one thing.

"My team and I, we have rules."

He snorts, and I close all the distance between us until we're chest to chest. I've got a good six inches on him and even more in bulk. I almost never throw my weight around off the ice—unless my sisters are involved.

Or, I guess, Amelia.

Before I can continue, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Not stepping away from Drew, I glance back, hoping to scare off whoever it is with a look.

But the older woman stepping into the elevator wearing a blue coverup and a beach bag doesn't seem to read the room—or, in this case, the elevator—because she steps inside.

"I'm kind of in the middle or something here," I tell her.

The woman sniffs, then raises one sculpted eyebrow. "I don't mind."

Okay, then.

Turning back to Drew, I tilt my head, cracking my neck. Always a good intimidation move. It also helps slightly with the crick I have from sleeping on the plane.

"When we get back down to the lobby, you are going to walk right over to the front desk and give up the honeymoon suite."

"But I?—"

"No."

I stop just short of grabbing him by his scrawny neck. I already risked enough dragging him onto the elevator. Pressing assault charges would fit right into his whole wimpy aesthetic. He flinches, even as my finger hovers inches from his chest, pointing at him but not touching.

"There is no but that could possibly excuse you sleeping with the maid of honor who is also your ex-fiancée's cousin, then coming here and claiming the honeymoon suite for the two of you."

"I paid for it," he sneers.

"I don't care. I'll happily foot the bill as soon as you turn over the room to us. You'll need to save your money anyway. Because you are going to pay Coach and Amelia back every single cent they spent on the wedding. Because you know what?"

I lean closer until our foreheads are inches apart.

"It's the right thing to do. You don't seem to have any concept of right or wrong, so consider this my way of helping you out. Explain the situation to the front desk. Then get your stuff out. Preferably, take it to another hotel. Or another state."

"I'm not?—"

The woman, whom I'd forgotten about until now, speaks. "Young man, are you really trying to argue?"

I take a step back from Drew as he stutters a response.

"Uh, y-yes ma'am."

She shakes her head at him and turns to me. "I'm a lawyer." She pulls out an embossed card from her beach bag and hands it to me. "And I specialize in civil cases much like this one. I wish I could say this is a one-off, but there are plenty of bad fish in the sea."

I take the woman's card, sliding it into my pocket. Not a bad idea to put her on call. The team has lawyers but I don't know if they'll help with something like this.

"And there aren't enough men like you." She pats my arm, then steps back, waving a hand. "Continue. We're almost back down to the lobby."

I glare at Drew. "Do we understand each other?"

For a moment, I really think he's going to argue. The woman clears her throat, and in my peripheral vision, I see her shaking her head.

"Fine," Drew spits out.

"Good." While I feel like I've taken some small slice of justice, it's not nearly enough as I feel the elevator slowing. "Last thing. I'd ask you to apologize to Amelia, but it's clear you don't have the proper understanding of what you've done wrong. So, don't talk to her. Don't call her or text her. Don't look at her. Because she deserves better. She deserves the kind of man you could never hope to be."

"Let me guess," Drew says, narrowing his eyes. "You think you're that man?"

I raise my voice, as obviously, he has a hearing problem. "I don't come close to being good enough for Amelia. But if she were mine? I would never let her go. I would spend every waking day and every single breath just hoping I could show her the love she deserves."

I don't realize the elevator is stopped and the doors are open until I hear clapping. It starts with the lawyer still standing a few feet away but she's quickly joined by most of the lobby by the time I've turned around.

Everyone but Amelia and her cheating cousin. They aren't standing anywhere near each other, but share the same shocked expression. Amelia blinks at me like I've just announced I'm an alien, here on a mission to destroy the earth.

Ignoring everyone but her, I cross the lobby and lace my fingers through Amelia's before I can rethink it. I hope she doesn't feel the way my hand is shaking.

"Let's go pack up your things. I think by the time we get back down here, our room situation will be straightened out."