Shit.
Lucy was his PR savior and sorta friend—as much of one as someone like him could have. She’d threatened to send a nurse to make sure he didn’t die. He said he didn’t need one, that he could take care of himself, as always. Then, like an asshole, he’d puked his guts up with her still on the phone.
He knew she’d send help, and that’s how he’d ended up watching his security system app for the first sign of any do-gooder who showed up—so he could send them away immediately.
He didn’t have to guess about the identity of the woman glaring at him through the CCTV.
Fallon Hartigan. He’d met her once a few months back when he’d gotten bamboozled into being Lucy’s shoulder to cry on after she’d had a fight with her boyfriend. Fallon had been part of the trio of women who’d relieved him of that very awkward duty. He couldn’t remember the names or much about the other two. But Fallon? Yeah, he’d had a fantasy or three about that long braid of hers and seeing her fuck-you expression turn into something more along the lines of fuck-me-harder.
Not that he’d done a thing about it that night. He’d been too damn glad Fallon and her friends had shown up. He loved Lucy like a sister, but tears weren’t his thing. Really, feelings weren’t his thing. Of course, up until the ass-crack of dawn this morning, getting so sick he actually called for help was not his thing, either.
Still. Just because he would have maybe sorta been okay with Lucy helping him didn’t mean he was good with having someone else in his space. He needed to get rid of Fallon. Quick. And the best way to do that? Hip check to the ego.
“How do I know she sent you? You could be a stalker fan,” he said, the words sounding more like a croak than a harsh accusation, since his belly picked that moment to deke and swerve.
“I’m Fallon Hartigan. We’ve met before.” Fallon lifted her arms, the move showing off the shapeless blue scrubs she was wearing. “Anyway, do I look like I’m a puck bunny here to try to bang you into playing like you’re worth the payout the Ice Knights gave you?”
No, she didn’t. But even if she had looked like the minidress-wearing hottie he’d booted out this morning before he got sick, he was too close to death’s door to appreciate the view. “Go away. I’d rather die in here on my own than have to deal with a pain in the ass like you.”
“Really? That’s what you’re going with? Oh, hold on.” She started digging through her backpack. “Here it is.” She lifted her empty hand out of the bag and held it palm up, looking down at it with a sweet smile as if she was holding something of astronomical cuteness. “That’s all the fucks I give about what you want.” Her gaze snapped back up to the security camera placed outside of his gate. Her big blue eyes narrowed. “Lucy wants me to take care of you while you get over your slight case of the man-flu, and I told her I would, so that’s what I’m doing. Now, let me in.”
Something in his gut bubbled and cramped, causing beads of sweat to pop out along his forehead. Want had nothing to do with it, he needed to get her away from here.
Obviously taking his silence as a no, Fallon pulled out her phone and started to dial.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Lucy so she can cut her vacation short to come babysit your whiny ass, since you won’t let me in.”
He gripped the armrests of his office chair and sent up a prayer to whoever was listening to just please, please, let him get through the next sixty seconds.
“Or,” Fallon said, an evil gleam visible in her eyes even on the shitty security monitor. “Are you gonna let me in?”
An icy wave washed over him, the kind that meant the fates were sending a big fuck-you on the no-more-throwing-up thing. “I don’t want to.”
Fallon snorted. “Welcome to the real world, where we rarely, if ever, get what we want.”
Now that was something he knew all too well.
He’d wanted parents who hadn’t embezzled all of his money, a hockey career that wasn’t marred by scandal, a town that didn’t hate him, teammates that didn’t look at him like he was nothing but trash, and an end to the streak of shitty playing that had plagued him since the Ice Knights traded for him. But, most of all, at that moment, he wanted to keep whatever was in his stomach in his stomach.
Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Fallon Hartigan may be a pushy pain in his ass, but that didn’t make her wrong. He was most definitely not going to get what he wanted.
Propelled by powerful, stomach-mandated urgency, Zach flipped off the monitor, pressed the button to open the security gate to let Fallon in, entered the security code to unlock the front door, and then sprinted to the closest bathroom to puke up his guts.
Again.
This sure as hell wasn’t the life he’d dreamed of when he laced up his skates for the first time, back when he’d thought his parents saw him as more than just a paycheck.
…
A non-nurse would have bolted. However, when they said nothing scared a nurse, they weren’t kidding. It would take more than Zach Blackburn dry heaving to send her screaming for the exits. And yes, that would be exits plural. The house he lived in was massive, if woefully under-furnished. Literally, it looked like the guy had just arrived in town a week ago instead of seven months—right in time to ruin the Ice Knights’ run for the playoffs last season. Not that Fallon was still bitter, but she was totally still bitter.
After peeling him away from the porcelain god, she’d moved him into the kitchen for a better-smelling piece of scenery. It was one of those fancy kitchens where there was a cooking area, an island the size of her bathroom, an eating area big enough for a table for ten but which held only a card table and a single folding chair, and a sitting area with a dark brown leather couch and a massive TV. Zach was sitting in the middle of the couch with a green plaid blanket wrapped around him.
It was almost comical. Here was this hulk of a man with a sexy dimple in his chin, steel bar going through his eyebrow, and a hint of a vibrant tattoo on his forearm peeking out from where the blanket had fallen away, all cuddled up like a swaddled baby. However, the fact that his skin had a sweaty, pasty, vomiting-way-too-much sheen to it pretty much killed the humor vibe.
Poor guy.