Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Jamie

I woke with my head hammering to a screaming alarm, and as I peeled my eyes open, the sunlight streaming through the blinds felt like an assault. Why hadn't I shut the blinds? Every movement was sluggish, each thought fighting through a fog.

"Fuck my life," I muttered; my mouth tasted like something had died in it. I made the age-old promise that I would never drink again. Ever. I couldn't recall what had happened, as I regretted all my life choices, and then it hit me, and the regrets changed from me over drinking to me throwing myself at a man who'd been avoiding me.

"Bollocks," I told the curtains.

Slowly, the room came into focus—the familiar mess of clothes strewn about, the bottle of water on the bedside table, my clock showing it was six-thirty a.m. And then, the emptiness of the bed next to me sank in as I shifted to face where Craig had been, a twinge in my arse underscoring the fact that, yep, there had been sex.

So, I hadn't imagined him… he had been here, hadn't he?

I sat up, my head protesting with a sharp jab of pain, and surveyed the room. No sign of the sexy skater. No note, no forgotten jacket. Nothing but the tangled sheets bearing the unmistakable, slick evidence of last night's escapades. The lube was everywhere—on the sheets, a testament to my drunken state and the speed with which lust had grabbed us. I grimaced at the mess, the physical residue making his absence more pronounced.

He'd gone.

Had it meant anything to him? The night had blurred into a sequence of sex, touches, and laughter. It had felt real, felt right. But the space beside me spoke of a different truth—one where he'd slipped away without a word, leaving me to wake alone with my thoughts and this throbbing headache.

Great. Just great.

I swung my legs out of bed, the cool air hitting my skin, making me shiver. I should clean up and start erasing the traces of what had happened before someone saw it. Yet, I hesitated, a part of me not ready to wipe away the last vestiges of his presence, messy though they were. What if last night was just the one time? What if he'd been avoiding me for a reason and then gotten drunk, and I'd gotten drunk, and then we'd made equally bad decisions?

As I sat there, the weight of those decisions pressed heavily upon me. What had I been thinking? Random sex wasn't me. I wasn't a man who went for reckless encounters, especially not with someone like Craig—someone I liked and maybe wanted more than one night with.

"Bollocks," I repeated, this time louder, while digging my fingers in my hair and holding tight before letting go long enough to down the water, then stumbled, tired, into the bathroom. My ass ached, my back ached, and the muscles in my thighs burned, but the memory of the best orgasm I'd ever had flooded me, and when I faced the mirror, my hair sticking up all over, I was smiling.

Until I saw the marks on my neck.

Clearly, Craig had vampiric tendencies by the bruises he'd left. I wish I could remember every one of them being made, but no, I was the idiot who'd drunk too much and made questionable life choices. The shower helped a little. I mean, it didn't wash away the ache in my arse, or the ring of bruises at the base of my throat, or the handprint on my left thigh where he'd gripped me, but it cleared my head a little, and at least I wasn't sick.

But there it was, the stark, sticky reality of our choices smeared across my sheets. I sighed deeply, frustration and resignation settling in as I stripped the bed and rolled the sheets into a ball. I'd need to face him eventually, face whatever this was—or wasn't—between us. But not just yet. First, I needed tea. And headache pills. Lots of them.

When I shuffled downstairs, the kitchen was unexpectedly silent. There was no sign of the girls yet, but I was on breakfast duty because Oliver had an early practice. I'd braced myself for the typical whirlwind of activity stirred up by Scarlett and Daisy. Instead, I found immaculate counters and the remnants of yesterday's event gone.

With a sense of relief that I had silence for a while, my hands fumbled as I filled the kettle. The promise of tea and headache meds kept me anchored to the world this morning.

As the kettle began to rumble with the early signs of a boil, the sound was a gentle murmur compared to the throbbing in my head. I leaned against the counter, closing my eyes briefly, letting the familiar ritual of making tea soothe the rough edges of my hangover.

Oliver's booming entrance shattered the moment. "Morning, sunshine!" he declared with a grin far too bright for this ungodly hour.

The greeting hit me like a sledgehammer. I winced, opening one eye to squint at my best friend, who would die quickly if he didn't rein it in. "You're too loud," I muttered, my voice hoarse.

Oliver was already dressed in his Storm T-shirt, the epitome of morning readiness that I found particularly offensive given my current state. "Sorry," he chuckled, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a whisper but was still average speaking volume.

"Tablets," I whimpered and focused on finding the right tea bag while he unlocked the medicine box. I accepted the bottle of painkillers he slid across the counter to me with extreme gratitude. I popped a couple, chased them down with a swig of water, made my mug of tea, and then buried my head in my hands with my elbows propped awkwardly on the counter.

Oliver's presence was a mix of comfort and annoyance—a brother in all but blood who knew exactly when to push and when to hold back. As I sat there, my head cradled in my hands, I felt him pat my back sympathetically.

"Rough night?" he asked, his tone laced with a brotherly concern that I both appreciated and dreaded.

I nodded into my hands, not quite ready to dive into the details of last night's escapades or Craig's silent departure. "You could say that," I mumbled, my voice muffled by my palms.

"You don't normally drink," he said after a pause, pulling out a tray of eggs, six of which I knew would disappear into whatever omelets he would make. It was all about protein for Mr. Hockey Star, but the thought of eggs right now for me… gah, no. "Is it the ex from hell? Did he do something else?"

"Sean? Haven't heard anything since he handed over our research with my name removed," I grumbled, but I wasn't going to go through all that again, particularly with a headache. "I just…" What did I say? That I thought Craig was ignoring me, so I got drunk, and then I pouted and went all psycho on him, and then he ran away? I sighed, a part of me relieved to have a friend like Oli to confide in, another part wishing I could rewind and start yesterday over so I had nothing to explain. But for now, tea sounded like a perfect first step, and I sipped the brew, the heat of which soothed my throat. I remembered a messy three a.m. blowjob.

Or did I dream rolling over and swallowing him down, near choking on his glorious cock and?—

"Earth to Jamie, come in, Jamie," Oli said as he waved his hand in front of my face.

"It's all good," I lied.

He patted my shoulder as if he understood I needed to lie, before plating up his enormous omelet and finishing it just as Jackson strolled into the kitchen in his cop suit, not looking quite as ragged as he used to before he'd moved in here with Oli and started eating correctly and actually having a supply of new ties at his beck and call. He and Oli exchanged a kiss, and then he swung his leg over the stool and rested his head on his hands, staring at me.

"So, I caught someone breaking out," he deadpanned, and for a moment I tensed. Someone had broken into our house. Were the girls okay? Surely Oli would be upset if…

Wait…

Someone had broken out of the house.

He waited for me to put two and two together before grinning at me.

Arsehole wanker bastard.

He smirked, and when I glanced at Oli, I saw him biting his lip to stop an unmistakable grin. "Fuck you both backward," I snarled, and then after a few more sips of tea, I sighed. "Yes, it was Craig, and yes, we slept together, and yes, we were both drunk, and no, I don't want to talk about it."

"At least your walk of shame was only down the stairs; I had to help your spurned lover with the alarm and the gate and ensure he got in the cab." Jackson was teasing, but I was worried about Craig and what we'd done, and I didn't feel like joking.

"I didn't spurn him. Who even uses the word spurn."

Jackson shrugged. "Brits."

I scowled at him. "We don't say that."

"I've watched Downton Abbey and Bridgerton ." Jackson was baiting me into the usual US versus UK language thing, but I was done with his teasing. Why was it that anyone I met here expected me to talk like some straitlaced, uptight historical figure?

I changed the subject quickly. "Was he okay?" Was he ashamed? Did he have regrets? Was he running?

"Seemed okay to me," Jackson said.

"Really?"

"Really. He said he had an early practice, moaned about how it was the day after our event and how he shouldn't have drunk and…" He tapped the counter as he recalled more. "Oh yeah, he had a message for you."

Fuck, why didn't Jackson start with that? "What did he say?" Jackson was focused on pouring coffee into a thermos, then he kissed Oli, and I swear that man was out to make me hit him square on the nose.

"He said to tell you goodbye."

"That was it?" I was disappointed; part of me hoped Craig's words would be meaningful.

"Well…" He leaned toward me and lowered his voice as if he had another part of the message for my ears only; I moved in eagerly. "Yep, that was it," he said, stole one last kiss from Oli, grabbed his keys, and vanished.

"I hate him," I muttered.

Oli chuckled. "No, you don't."

"Yes. I do." I collapsed back to the counter, scrubbing at my eyes.

As I nursed my second hot mug of tea, feeling the life seep back into me, Oliver rested against the countertop, his gaze thoughtful.

"Craig's really something on the ice. Fast, smart. It's like he's playing chess out there," he started, breaking the comfortable silence between us as I sipped my tea. "But he's also one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Always has time for everyone, always there to help the rookies."

I nodded, my grip on the mug tightening just a bit. I was warm inside as Oli said this.

"I messed it up."

"How?"

"I don't remember, but I know this is all my fault."

"If you don't remember, how do you know it's all your fault?"

"I'm British; it's always our fault," I murmured, and Oli chuckled again. "Also, he's not here, is he!" I waved at the kitchen. "I don't remember what I did, but he's the one running before I woke up."

"Craig is one of the good guys, and he would have needed to sleep before practice. I bet he didn't really want to go, so don't let one awkward morning make you think otherwise."

His words were meant to be reassuring, and somewhere beneath the headache, they were. But they also reminded me of a) why I was never drinking again and b) how awkward the morning after the night before could be.

Before I could respond, Oliver glanced at the clock and cursed softly. "I've got to head out. Practice won't wait for the weary or the hungover," he said with a grin, clapping me on the shoulder as he passed by on his way to the door. "Take care of the munchkins, yeah?"

"I'll do that," I replied, the reality of the day ahead settling on my shoulders as he disappeared out the door, the sound of it closing echoing slightly in the quiet kitchen. I was in charge of breakfast and getting the girls ready for school, and then it was head down, working out my next research project. Now, if my head survived this hangover, I had to start again.

Dr Jameson Hennessy, time of brain cell death, oh-seven-fifteen.

The sound of feet thumping down the stairs broke the peace. Scarlett and Daisy burst into the kitchen, their faces bright with the boundless energy of youth I envied on mornings like these.

"Jamie! We decided on teddy bear pancakes!" Daisy declared in a high-pitched demand that brooked no argument.

Scarlett nodded vigorously. "With lots of syrup! And strawberries!"

I set my mug down with a resigned smile, the remnants of my earlier contemplations about Craig fading as the immediate needs of Oliver's daughters took precedence. "All right, teddy bear pancakes it is," I said, pushing aside the nausea and the whole spinning head thing, pulling out the ingredients and firing up the grill.

As I mixed the batter and poured it into the shapes they demanded, the breakfast chaos took over, leaving no room for lingering thoughts of why Craig had gone without a goodbye, how embarrassing I'd been, or what might have been had he stayed. The kitchen filled with the scent of pancakes and the sound of delighted laughter, pulling me firmly back into the present. Here, now, this was what mattered. The rest would have to wait.