“What? Is the team going to make him apologize publicly? He was a totally Twitter jerk about this whole thing.”
“Didn’t know you were paying attention, Sunshine.” He scooped a handful of nuts from a bowl she kept filled on the counter and popped them in his mouth.
Her cheeks heated. “I assume your teammates know. Are they talking to you again?”
“Mostly. I’ve been texting or talking with nearly everyone. They’ve more or less moved on, except Wyatt.”
She chuckled. “Well, what do you expect? He’s a goalie. They’re all temperamental. And superstitious. Well, all players are superstitious.”
He stopped chewing, and she hurried on, trying to fill the awkward silence. “Hockey’s my favorite sport by far. I love seeing the athletes’ reflexes, their strength, their bursts of speed. It’s breathtaking.”
She side-eyed him. His eyebrows had crawled up his forehead, and his mouth hung open. Evidently she’d shocked him.
He shook his head, seeming to recover, and smirked. “Who’s your favorite player?”
She didn’t skip a beat. “Gretzky.”
“No, I meant present day.”
Now it was her turn to smirk. “My brother, of course.”
“Damn.” He nodded. “But I totally get that. It’s the safe answer.”
“You honestly didn’t think I’d say you were, did you?”
A gleam lit his eyes. “You wouldn’t be the first if you had.”
She gave him her best eye-roll and went back to unpacking. “So fu—darn cocky.”
A laugh rumbled through his chest. “Good catch, toots. So you making empanadas tonight?”
“Yeah, if that sounds good.”
“Sounds great. Can you pack some with meat?”
“I’ll see what I can do, caveman.”
“Need any help?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you being so nice?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. In a good mood, I guess. Don’t feel like fighting.” He broke out in Alabama Shakes’s “Don’t Wanna Fight,” his voice possibly at a higher screech level than the lead singer’s.
She stared at him for a few beats. Maybe he hadn’t gone running at all. Maybe he’d gotten himself laid instead. The notion made her stomach sink a little, so she pushed it away. “I don’t need help, but thanks.”
“Better make lots.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m going downstairs to work off the cookies I hope you’re making along with the empanadas.”
She was still gaping at the doorway after he’d left. Maintaining her dislike for him twenty-four-seven was becoming much harder.
Quinn couldn’t take it anymore. Being cooped up just shy of two weeks with two nutty women was making him squirrely. That had to explain why Sarah Sunshine was on his mind. All. The. Freaking. Time. It would also explain what had motivated him to do something nice for her and why her reaction had made him feel like he could fly.
Not to mention what her commentary about hockey had done to him. His insides had cartwheeled at the possibility of carrying on an intelligent conversation with her about his sport. And goddamn, goalies were temperamental!
What he needed right now was to whack a fuck ton of pucks and work her out of his system—except she wasn’t in his system. Was she?
He continued this debate with himself as he set up his shooting pad and dumped out a bucket of pucks in his driveway. Next he hung a screen that covered his garage door with an image of a goalie and five shooting targets. A few shots in, however, the very object of his frustration appeared.
“Hey, want some help with your drills?” Sarah stood to the side, hands in her back pockets, her eyes trained on the screen.
He stopped and straightened.
Her gaze swung to his. “I used to help Gage before he went pro. I’m not very good with a stick, but apparently I’m good enough to get in the way and be a pest, which was what he said he needed.” She grinned.
“Why am I not surprised?” He grinned back.
He grabbed gloves and a stick for her—a shorter one from his juniors days—and soon they were marching through drills. She was better at stick handling than she’d given herself credit for, plus she had an uncanny ability to poke the puck away or get her body in the right place and impede his progress. Subtle, smart moves. In other words, she was a perfect drill partner. Plus, she could talk like one too.
“You really mix up your shots. Do you have a sweet spot?” she said as they took a water break.
“Top shelf, left,” he replied without thought.
She gave him an approving nod. “Where Mama keeps the peanut butter.”
A slow grin began to spread. “Exactly. Show me what else you know, toots.”
And she did. He got so lost in the play that he zenned himself into a hockey zone. Unfortunately, it didn’t eliminate the thoughts he’d been trying to displace—like the visual of her in her itty-bitty, wet bikini molded to her curves like a second skin. No, instead he kept picturing her working out beside him wearing nothing but that.
And who could blame him? Every time she was near, her scent drifted around him and beckoned him a little closer. He craved physical contact.
Jesus, he needed to get laid.
As quickly as the truism popped into his brain, he shoved it down. Even if he could indulge in a quick-and-dirty with someone not Sarah, that someone might pass on COVID that he could pass on to his mom. He wasn’t that desperate—or that selfish.
While she stood to the side, he took a dozen more shots, trying harder with each pass for something fancy that would impress her—a spin-o-rama or between-the-legs move. Instead, he ended up looking like he didn’t know how to score. To make matters worse, things below his waistband had perked up since they’d started their drills, growing into a wicked distraction.
Getting a boner around his buddy’s sister should never happen. Yeah, he absolutely needed to get laid. It would solve everything.
They stowed the gear and headed in different directions inside. He wound up in the gym, where he
