Page 65 of Playing Her Game

“The pleasure,” he pauses. “Is ours.”

“Ours,” I whisper softly.

“Ours,” he repeats.

We stay tangled together. His fingers trace idle patterns along my shoulder blade.

"Need to eat," he says eventually.

“Go.” I smile, stretching out my body.

He shifts, pressing a kiss to my temple before sliding out of bed. I watch him pull on his boxers and head to the kitchen, utterly comfortable in his own space. When he returns with leftover pasta from last night and a bottle of water, I accept both gratefully.

"Pregame fuel," he says with a slight grin.

I take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Does it count as pregame if I'm not actually playing?"

"You've made the team."

We eat together in easy silence, eating. And that is truly sexy. When we finish, he sets the plate aside and pulls me back down with him, tucking me against his chest.

"Nap?" I ask.

"Nap," he confirms.

I close my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear. His hand rests on my hip, thumb brushing lazy circles. I feel the exact moment his breathing evens out, deepening into sleep, and I let myself drift after him.

When I wake, the light has shifted. I glance at the clock.

4:47 p.m.

Rez stirs beside me, already halfway awake. "Time?"

"You've got thirteen minutes."

He groans softly but doesn't move. "Cutting it close."

"You should go."

"I should," he agrees, but his arm tightens around me for one more moment before he finally lets go.

My phone buzzes fifteen minutes after Rez leaves. I glance at the screen, stomach tightening. Mother.

I consider letting it ring through. Instead, I answer.

"Anna." Her voice carries that particular brittleness that means she's already decided I'm being unreasonable. "We need to discuss when you're coming home."

"I haven't decided yet."

"That's precisely the problem." A pause, weighted. "Your father and I have been more than patient with this... episode. But enough is enough. If you won't come to your senses, I'll come there myself."

My fingers tighten on the phone. "You don't even know where I am."

"Don't be childish. You're in Chicago with that hockey player." She says it like an accusation. "The one who made that ridiculous social media post about you."

I close my eyes. Of course she knows. Of course she's already tracking my movements, my associations, my choices.

"I'm not coming home yet."