Page 1 of The Risk Taker

1

LOGAN

Something’s off. I don’t know what yet, but I feel it before I even open my eyes.

I blink slowly, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the light bleeding in from somewhere across the room, pieces of last night coming back to me as the taste of cheap tequila lingers on my dry tongue.

Listen… It sounded good at the time. Getting wasted at a bar and going home with a hot-as-fuck girl? Hell yes. But now, waking up with my skull feeling like it’s been tossed into a blender and hit with the chop setting… it’s agony.

I groan and sink deeper into the pillow, wondering if I can get away with not moving for, I don’t know… the next twelve hours.

That dream dies fast, because I quickly realize my arm is draped over something warm and soft, and when my fingers twitch, they brush against something firmer. Round. Smooth. With a small, tight peak in the middle.

Well… That’s definitely a nipple.

One eye cracks open, confirming what I already know. I’m not alone. And this isn’t my room.

There’s a girl curled up beside me, her dark hair spilling across the pillow and my arm. One bare leg sticks out, and the unmistakable dark blue of a Midnight Wolves hockey jersey hangs off her shoulder. One leg is wrapped in the sheets while the other is bent against the mattress, completely bare.

I glance down, see my phone on the floor, and lean over to grab it, squinting at the screen. There are a ton of missed calls stacked up, and when I finally focus on the clock I see it’s 6:21 a.m.

“Shit.” I sit up fast, instantly regretting it when the room starts to tilt. My head’s pounding hard enough to make me see spots. I press a hand over my face, willing the world to stop spinning.

I’m late as fuck for practice.

Coach is going to murder me, and Nathan will be right there beside him, silently judging me with that look he does. He might not be captain, but he might as well be with how bossy and broody he gets.

I swing my legs off the bed and start shoving on my jeans, still watching the clock.

“Wait. Where are you going?” a sleepy voice croaks from under the covers.

Fuck. Busted.

I glance back. She’s still half-buried in the sheets, her cheek pressed to the pillow, her eyes barely open.

“Practice,” I mutter, scanning the floor for socks.

She shifts, rolling onto her back with a stretch and a soft yawn. “Mmm. Last night was so fun.”

I don’t answer. Partly because I’m hopping around trying to get a sock on without falling over, and partly because I don’t really know what to say.

Was it fun? Maybe. I don’t remember enough to be sure.

She watches me with a lazy smile. “Did you have fun?” she asks with a sultry tone to her voice.

“Yeah,” I say, even as glitter drifts off my jacket and rains across the floor. “Sure.”

Glitter. Fucking glitter. The herpes of craft supplies. It never dies. It clings to skin, clothes, my soul. I’ll still be finding this shit next week no matter how many showers I take.

It’s fine. I’m fine. I just need to get the hell out of here before Ryan starts flooding my phone with passive-aggressive reminders about being late. Again.

I grab my hoodie and make for the door, stepping around a minefield of heels.

“Call me,” she says behind me, playing with the hem of her jersey. The hopeful curve of her mouth makes something twist in my gut.

I freeze for half a second because I don’t even know her name, let alone have her number.

But my phone buzzes again—Ryan, obviously—and panic wins out. “Yeah,” I lie, forcing a grin. “Will do.”