Dear Roomie

by Kate Meader

  “Groceries that you won’t eat.” She looked understandably baffled. “Then why did he bring it over?”

  “To mess with me.”

  She crossed her arms over those fabulous breasts. “Explain.”

  That made him smile. On the inside. “He knows I have a strict regimen during the season. Diet, exercise—”

  “Celibacy.”

  Yep. “So he thinks he can chip away at that.”

  “And if you cave in on one thing, you’ll be on a slippery slope to empty calories and watching The Bachelor and celebrating your wins with half a Sam Adams and a puck bunny at the bar.”

  “He’d love to see it.”

  “Sports people.” She shook her head sadly.

  “It’s not a sports thing. It’s a Durand thing.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “We’re competitive. But you can help me out my removing some of this food from the sightline of temptation.”

  “Shakespeare couldn’t have said it better.” She took out a bottle of Boréale Cuivrée, which was Reid’s favorite amber ale. That connard. “I’ll have one but first, let me see … He bought sweet potatoes and chili peppers? Sort of weird for someone who’s not going to cook them.” She did this cute little nose wrinkle and his lips itched with … he didn’t know what. “Do you like curry?”

  Reid was very conscious of his gut health. “That might not work with my diet, but make whatever you want for yourself.”

  “You’re opposed to flavor during the season?”

  “Plain is better.” Plain food, plain sex (with his hand), plain life. “And you don’t have to cook for me.”

  “I can make it healthy. I’d just need to check on the spice situation.” She pulled open one of the cupboards but he could have told her the spice situation would not be to her liking. “Tarragon?” She held up the lone spice jar she found.

  “It was here when I moved in.”

  Epic eye roll. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Kennedy, you don’t have to—” But she was already out the door.

  He looked down at Bucky. “You like curry, buddy?”

  He decided to help out by peeling a sweet potato. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d peeled … anything. Judging by the way he was hacking at this, there was a good chance he had never peeled a vegetable at all.

  Already, the kitchen was showing signs of impact, though it wasn’t this irregularly-chopped root vegetable. It was her. This woman was an asteroid on a collision course with his life. He could either take a nuclear weapon and blow it up like Bruce and the crew in Armageddon or he could wait for the inevitable extinction level event like the dinosaur he was.

  He should go to the gym. Coach Calhoun had warned him off over-training but Reid felt this might be a good time to get on a treadmill to nowhere.

  Three minutes later, Kennedy was back with arms full of small containers.

  “Where did you get those?”

  “Carson in 4C. Such a sweetheart! He opened up his spice rack to me so I think we have everything we need.” She dumped her haul on the counter, and he winced at the mess. “Prepare to be astonished, roomie!”

  How had he thought inviting Kennedy and her great rack and tight yoga pants into his home was a good idea? After a week of hardly seeing her, he had assumed: I can do this. But now after ten minutes in her effervescent presence, he was wondering if he’d made a mistake. Neither was she doing anything out of the ordinary. Just being herself.

  “How about some music to cook by?” She opened the music app on her phone and soon she was playing—

  “‘The Rockford Files’?” He looked at Bucky who had started at the discordant sounds of the electric guitar. “That’s your cooking music?”

  “Hell, yeah! Seventies TV themes are my jam.” She flashed him a smile and shimmied her way along the counter. “I had such a crush on James Garner when I was a kid, especially as Jim Rockford. He was always sleeping with the wrong women and getting knocked about by jealous husbands. I wanted to save him.”

  “You’re kind of weird, you know that?”

  “Roomie, we are all weird.” She picked up the mutilated sweet potato. “I hope you’re a better hockey player than a prep chef.”

  “Yeah, I won’t be giving up my day job.”

  “Right—oh, hold on, this is my favorite riff.” She went a little loco on the air guitar, pulling an adorable face and nah-nahing along. Then she winked at him and returned to her task of slicing the chicken.

  Cooking should be a lust-neutral project. Reid didn’t usually get any particular pleasure out of it. Kennedy obviously did, but then she got pleasure out of everything. And Reid got pleasure out of her.

  The gym beckoned. It would be better for his mental health. His dick health.

  Instead he asked, “How can I help?”

  “Dice this pepper. Oh!”

  “What?”

  “I just noticed these.” Tentatively, as if they were a gift, she touched the three mugs he had removed from the cupboard that was too tall for her, and placed on the counter. “You left these here for me?”

  “Oui. You need your coffee, don’t you?”

  “I do. Thanks, that was kind of you.” The softness on her face at this one small thing made his heart leap like Bucky when he spotted a squirrel at the park. She uncapped one of Bast’s beers. “You sure you don’t want one? I still think it’s odd that he brought it, knowing you won’t drink it.”

  “All part of his evil plan. He’s a devil in disguise.”

  “Cute. I’m guessing he got all the personality in your family.” She took a drink of her beer and he looked away so he wouldn’t add a shot of her slender throat to his fantasy list.

  “Yeah, that’s Bast. Mr. Personality.” He didn’t want to talk about his brother, so he changed the subject. “Did you grow up in Chicago?”

  “No, in a small town in Indiana, just outside of South Bend.”

  “But your grandmother’s here?”

  “Yeah. She’s pretty excited that I know you. The mere mention of your name sent her into a Reid-gasm.”

  Not an image he relished. “Tell me about her.”

  She gave him an odd look, and maybe it was an odd request. Mostly he just wanted to hear her speak. He hadn’t expected he would enjoy that. He didn’t enjoy people as a rule, so no one was more surprised than him.

  So she talked and he listened, and then he ate the hottest curry he’d ever experienced, and took it like a champion because that’s what he aspired to be.

  14

  The next morning Reid was up at five for a run, Bucky at his heels, as he stumbled toward the kitchen to start the coffee. Caffeine was his one vice during the season. His only vice.

  But he was steadily working another one into his routine: fantasizing about his roommate. The curry she’d made last night (only 400 calories per serving, roomie!) was hot and spicy, and he’d headed to the gym straight after so he could sweat it—and her—out of his system. By the time he returned, she had gone to bed, having left a note to say Bucky had already been taken out.

  Reid took him out for another walk because the little con artist gave him the eye.

  Now he was up early, congratulating himself on getting six hours sleep. Sure, he’d only woken up three times.

  Jerked off twice.

  Dreamed about Mrs. Potato Head who insisted he call her Ms. Sweet Potato Head.

  Woke up with the theme from The Rockford Files on a loop in his head.

  Damn dog better be worth it.

  Probably not, he decided, because look the fuck here, if it wasn’t his roommate up before him, hanging in the kitchen with headphones on as she mixed something in a bowl. This should not have been a big deal except she wore a tank top and white panties.

  Skimpy.

  White.

  Panties.

  His dick jumped to life, like Bucky sensing his next meal.

  He moved into her sightline to let her know he was there, when real
ly it would have been better if he’d stealth-moded his way out of there. That way he wouldn’t have seen the subtle sway of her breasts as she faced him, the clearly hard nipples that seemed to point at him in accusation.

  Can’t look. Can’t touch. Can’t taste.

  These tits are not for you, dickhead.

  In the split second as she turned and before she reacted to his presence, he caught sight of that dark patch of hair beneath the almost translucent white fabric, that triangle that hid nothing and tempted him to dream of falling to his knees and placing his mouth right there.

  “Oh, sorry, I thought you were still asleep.” She waved over her body, almost an apology that only made it worse because now he was even more aware of those curves. The dips and swells, the places he wanted to visit with his tongue. “I only meant to nip out of my room for a second to whip up some blueberry muffins.”

  Nip. Every word was loaded.

  In the half-shadow of the under-cabinet lighting he noticed something else. Scar tissue on the side of her torso, in the sliver of revealed skin between her tank and her panties.

  Frustration pierced his chest, barreling through his veins. Dressed in loose running pants and a long-sleeved tee, he was covered up and following the rules. The least she could do was treat him as the stranger he was.

  “It’s …” Fine, he wanted to say. This is your home. Dress as much or as little as you please.

  But it wasn’t fine. Not when he had weeks and months of sexual frustration to face. It was only the second week of November, far too early in the season to be confronted with this threat to his balance.

  “It would be better if you assumed I’m always about to walk into the room.”

  “Okay, that sounds scary.” She giggled and placed the mixing bowl on the counter. “Reid might be here any second. Reid’s turning the corner. Reid’s … almost … here!” She raised both her hands to her cheeks as fists and gave a mock, soundless scream.

  “Or do whatever you want,” he muttered and walked out the door, grabbing Bucky’s leash as he went. The jangle was enough to bring him to attention.

  “Reid!”

  He was heading to the stairwell when she called his name again. Turning, he found her approaching in her winter coat (open, so covering nothing), but still in her bare feet.

  Concern reared in his chest. “You’ll catch a cold.”

  “Hey, don’t walk away when we’re having a discussion.”

  “We weren’t having a discussion. I was telling you a rule of the house and you decided it was a joke.”

  She bit her lip. “I did. I’m sorry about that. I was up early because Bucky peed in the hallway outside my room—”

  “What?” He peered down at Bucky who was giving his trademark look of innocence. “I thought he was getting better.”

  “He is. He does it more when you’re away so a definite improvement. I cleaned it up—not a big deal—and then I was awake so I thought I’d start baking. I really wasn’t thinking about how I looked and when you called me on it, I probably projected some of my subconscious annoyance at cleaning up after your puppy on you. Also, I have a tendency to push back at authority.”

  That was a very mature response, versus his very immature, can’t-control-his-dick one. All he could do was mutter, “I’m not an authority.”

  “You are. This is your place. Your space. Your rules. And I should respect that, especially given your particular situation right now.”

  The no-sex situation. He should have kept that to himself, but now it was here between them like the lust-crazed elephant in the room. He inhaled a deep breath, trying to fill lungs that would rather refuse the air.

  “I want you to be comfortable enough to feel at home. I shouldn’t ask you to change your habits for me, especially when it’s just you being … you. And especially when you’re being amazing cleaning up after this rogue here.” He shot Bucky another admonishing look. This time he had the decency to appear shamefaced. “It’s my responsibility to be a grown adult and not leer at my roommate. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  She rushed forward and placed a hand on his bicep. The warmth of that touch, the thrill of it, flooded his entire body with awareness. Of him, of her, of what was barely covered by that winter coat.

  Of what it might be like to back her up against the wall and lay his mouth on her gorgeous tits.

  “No, of course you should have asked. This is your home and I’m a guest. I need to be more considerate of your feelings. Forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. This is your home now.” He placed his hand over hers, trapping it against his chest. It was meant only to acknowledge her apology but the heat of her seeped into him.

  It might have been his imagination, but Reid could have sworn her eyes misted over before she quickly regrouped.

  “Huh, maybe you’re one of the good ones, Reid.”

  “Don’t let it get out. I have a rep to maintain.”

  She reached up on tip toes and kissed his cheek. Oh, Christ. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “I should get going.” Before I tear those panties off, and drive into your wet heat, deep and true. “Come on, Buck. Let’s talk about the right and wrong places to pee.”

  His naughty little pup wagged his tail.

  Another fifteen minutes added to the run should do it. And if it didn’t, Reid would add another thirty.

  “Durand, my office, now.”

  Reid looked up, only to see Coach Calhoun’s back leaving the locker room. He ran through the recent practice in his head. He’d acquitted himself well, might even have made a couple of the guys look like idiots, then spent extra time completing drills solo after everyone had come off the ice.

  “What’ve you done, Duracell?” Theo Kershaw grinned the smile that launched a thousand Insta comments.

  “Duracell?”

  “Yeah, you’re like the Energizer buddy out there, but Duracell works better because of your name. Lots of energy to work off.”

  “Needs a woman,” Erik Jorgenson said as he pulled at his pads. “If you had a woman to go home to nap with, you wouldn’t need to spend so much time doing extra, unnecessary drills.”

  Reid had a woman. Or, he had a roommate who was hotter than the hinges of hell, which for a man who went sex-free during the season, was probably one of the worst ideas in the history of bad ideas.

  Skimpy. White. Panties.

  So now he was reduced to extra drills and long runs and cold showers for the duration of Kennedy’s stay with him. He had given her leave to treat his home as hers, and it would likely come back to bite him—or his dick—later.

  He headed toward Coach’s office and knocked on the door. “Coach?”

  “Come in.”

  Coach Calhoun was a bear of a man, the kind of guy who didn’t suffer fools but had figured out how to be gruff without the asshole quotient. He was quick-tempered and hard to please, but as long as you put in the work, he left you alone.

  “Good work out there today, Durand.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “So did you ever play center coming up?”

  “For a short while. I prefer the wing because I get more chances to score.”

  Coach nodded thoughtfully. “A lot of guys do, but you’ve got a bit more going on. You’re a workhorse out there. Moving around a lot, never idle, figuring out the plays so you’re in the right place at the right time. That’s center instinct.”

  Reid had enjoyed his brief time as center at college level, but Henri had encouraged—more like demanded—that he push for the switch because wingers usually scored more goals and generally didn’t need to be as strong on defense. Reid had downplayed his proficiency in the center of the rink and focused on his winger attributes. His favorite players had always been the centers, though. Gretzky, St. James, DuPre.

  “Thing is, I have a problem here,” Coach went on when Reid didn’t say anything. “We’re kind of short on center talent. Jones’s arm is sti
ll not in the place it needs to be and Hunt might have to take time out for ankle surgery. Bond’s reliable but I need another player. I think you would work well on the front line with Foreman and Petrov.”

  The dynamic duo, best friends forever, pinkie swears and all that. Reid wasn’t sure he wanted to be the meat in their winger sandwich.

  Or maybe he wasn’t sure he was good enough.

  “They have a bond already and I might interfere with their dynamic. Plus I like having the opportunity to score.” On the wing, that was all he needed to think about. One-track mind that ended in the net.

  “Or you might make them stronger. Some of the legendary goal scorers have played center. Think Gretzy, Crosby, St. James. A guy with your work ethic is capable of filling a lot of holes for us. At practice tomorrow, I’d like to put you at center and see if it works. If it doesn’t, so what. We tried.”

  Reid couldn’t say no to that. He had no control here, and sometimes … that was good. Sometimes it was better to have someone take charge and just put him where he needed to be. It was a small thing, but perhaps it would lead to a big thing. A bubble of excitement tickled his chest at the idea he might contribute in a way that no one had understood before. That someone might need him.

  “You’re the coach, Coach.”

  “That I am.” He turned to his computer, which meant Reid was dismissed.

  Heading back to the locker room, he became alert to the sound of laughter and commotion and … barking?

  Bucky!

  Inside he found his dog holding court, surrounded by players who were acting as if royalty had come to visit. Kennedy sat on the bench in front of his cubby, the spot Reid had just vacated, alongside Mia with her Pom.

  “Oh, there’s Daddy!” Kennedy smiled and Reid’s chest tightened. Bucky spotted him and bounded the short distance over to greet his master.

  “Daddy?” Tate Kaminski shot him a look. “This dog and …” He flicked a glance at Kennedy. “Is yours, Durand?”