The Winning Score: A best-friend's-sister, enemies-to-lovers sports romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romance Book 4)

by G. K. Brady

  “Shut up,” he snorted. “I’m gonna lie down. You’ll grab my wrist—” He’d been rotating the shoulder, and something suddenly popped. The pain plummeted to a seven from fifteen on a ten-point scale. “Oh, thank fuck!” he panted and sat on the bed.

  “What?” Her face was twisted with concern. Beside her, Archer, all smiles, did a happy dance, as if he knew the crisis had passed.

  Quinn continued to work his shoulder. “Not dislocated after all. Just twanged, I think.”

  “What can I do?”

  “In my closet, top shelf, there’s a bin with braces and slings and shit. Pull it down. I want to immobilize the shoulder and ice it.”

  She spun and faced several doors. He motioned to the correct one. She stepped inside the closet and sucked in a breath. “What the—? This is a closet? I can see myself everywhere … and it’s bigger than Lily’s living room!”

  “I call it the house of mirrors.” He chuckled. Like everything else in the house, the master bedroom closet was over the top. A gaudy extravagance, every surface in the room was covered in mirrors—closet doors, drawers, built-in dressers. Apparently, the owners were gluttons for clothes and seeing themselves in them from every angle imaginable.

  He directed Sarah to a high shelf. After pulling the box down—and nearly clobbering herself on the head with it—she brought it to him. As he was rummaging around, his phone vibrated. “Would you get that?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Kinda late?” She picked up the phone and frowned at the screen. “Hello?”

  A sick feeling, like when one accidentally hits “Reply All” in an email never intended for all, jolted him. Oh shit! Wrong phone! He could only watch in horror because she wasn’t paying any attention to his wildly flapping hand.

  “Well, who is this?” she snapped. Her eyes slid toward him. “Bunny? Are you serious? That’s your actual name? Like, your parents named you that?”

  He did a face palm, then feebly motioned once more for her to turn over his goddamn phone. She kept her eyes on him but didn’t make a move. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Your first name is Puck,” she chortled.

  That’s the last I’ll hear from Bunny. He hung his head. In the blink of an eye, he’d swung from wanting to fuck Sarah senseless to wanting to throttle her senseless. The shoulder was simply a sidebar. As he rose and came toward her, she hurriedly said, “Well, he’s a little indisposed right now. Some extracurricular acrobatics that didn’t go as expected, and he’ll be laid … up—”

  He plucked the phone from her hand. “Bunny?”

  “Quinn? What’s going on?”

  “Uh, well, it’s a long story—”

  “No doubt it’s a fascinating one.” Sarcasm dripped off every word. “Look, I—”

  He dropped his hand holding the phone to his side. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he could hear the squawk.

  Meanwhile, Sarah was tiptoeing toward his door. “You’re not going anywhere,” he warned.

  While Bunny’s voice yammered on, Sarah dashed to the door. “Actually, I am.” Archer darted through, followed by Sarah, who closed the door nearly all the way, leaving only her nose visible through the crack. “’Night, Sparky. It’s been real.”

  The door snicked shut, and he stood staring after it, the phone still cradled in his hand. He brought it to his ear. “Bunny?” No answer. “Uh, Bunny? You there?”

  With a sigh, he sank onto his bed and awkwardly wrestled with the phone until he deleted her contact information. It occurred to him he should have felt bad about it, but he hadn’t thought of her in weeks. A twinge of guilt poked him. The level of alcohol in his system might have explained why his self-examination sharpened, but for whatever reason, he saw himself through Sarah’s eyes. He was, in fact, Hunter McMurphy. And he didn’t like it one damn bit.

  As he lay in bed a while later, he replayed his evening with Sarah, briefly wondering why the hell she’d shoved him in the family room—likely because she’d had more sense than he had. His mind meandered to Sarah’s exchange with Bunny. Is your first name Puck? In spite of the cringe-worthy conversation, laughter spurted from him.

  Later, as he bumped along on a wave of uncomfortable, restless sleep, the most important takeaway of the night was how Sarah had smelled and felt in his arms.

  Sarah brushed her teeth—twice—scoured her face, and let Archer back inside from his foray out in the yard. One glance toward her bedroom door confirmed she’d locked it—not that she expected anyone to come crashing through it. Especially an anyone with a broken shoulder. But she was tipsy and couldn’t trust herself to push Quinn away if he got close again.

  Damn hormones!

  Staring at herself in the mirror, she debated slipping on one of her newer sexy cami sets. In case her room combusted and firemen came to the rescue, of course, she had to look her best. Which was why she spread a dab of foundation over her face, slicked on a little gloss, and plumped her hair. There. Now she was ready for firemen to break down her door … or anyone else who happened to wander by.

  Had Archer been capable of an eye-roll, he’d have given her one as he curled up on his bed.

  She slid between cool, crisp sheets, clicked off the lamp, and stared at the shadowed ceiling.

  Omigod, what did I almost do tonight? And with Quinn Hadley, Ladies’ Man Supreme, of all people! She sighed and ran her hand over the silky cami, then heaved herself out of bed to change into a more practical pair of knit shorts and a tank that read, “I Drink and I Know Things.”

  It should read “I Drink and I Know Squat.”

  Her limbs were lead-like and achy, no doubt from the spill she’d taken with Quinn earlier. Despite her fatigue, a persistent cough prevented her from settling in. Within an hour, the cough had brought on nausea and drove her into the bathroom. Why did she drink so damn much tonight? Shit, she hadn’t gotten sick from overdrinking since college.

  After she emptied the contents of her stomach, she cleaned up and dragged her butt back to bed. Soon she was shivering so hard her teeth clacked together. She piled on a few sets of sweats and wool socks, wrapped her shoulders in a blanket, and padded to the kitchen in search of herbal tea. Her head pounded. The short walk left her so exhausted she had to lean on the counter and catch her breath.

  “What’s going on, Sunshine?” Quinn’s low voice behind her nearly launched her into the ceiling.

  She wheeled, twisting herself in the blanket and almost tumbling over. In the gloom lit by a mere refrigerator door light, she took in his hulking presence, clad in only shorts and his arm in a sling. In his good hand, he held an ice pack.

  “Oh damn,” she squeaked. “Can you play hockey?”

  Confusion crossed his face. “Not tonight. Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think … I drank too much.”

  He pointed at a barstool. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”

  It seemed as though he was gone forever, and she folded her arms on the counter and laid her heavy head on them. Her skin was hot. A gentle hand brushed the hair from her forehead, and something firm passed over it. A sharp intake of breath followed by, “Shit! You’re burning up.” Apparently, the something firm had been a thermometer.

  Quinn grasped her jelly arms and somehow tugged her upright. But she was so, so tired. All she wanted to do was collapse and sleep.

  “Sarah,” he said softly. “When was the last time you had anything to drink?”

  “Bourbon and Coke,” she mumbled.

  “Nothing after that? No water?”

  She began to shake her head, stopped, and winced. “Ow. No, nothing.”

  “Sweetheart, we need to get some fluids in you.”

  A little snort escaped her. “You call everyone ‘sweetheart.’ I’m not everyone. I’m Sunshine.”

  He frowned at her as he twisted a cap off a bottle and poured clear yellow liquid into a cup.

  “Are you mad at me?” she whimpered. God, she must have been really wasted
. Her emotions were on the point of a pendulum, swinging wildly from side to side. She felt more drunk now than when they’d been drinking.

  “No, Sunshine. I’m not mad at you. Here, drink this.” He pressed a cool cup to her lips.

  She took a few sips and pushed it away. “Blech. What is that?”

  “Gatorade. Be a good girl and take a few more sips for me. Then I want you to swallow some ibuprofen.”

  “Since you asked so nicely.” Her words came out in a slur.

  She couldn’t remember drinking any more Gatorade, but she was vaguely aware of being carried in steely arms and placed gently on her bed. The blanket had been taken off her shoulders, and Archer was pressing his wet nose against her hand. Cold. She was so cold, and her body felt as though her joints were being separated on a rack. Covers were tugged over her. Thick, warm fingers raked through her hair, pushing it off her forehead, before settling on her cheek. “Hey,” a deep voice whispered, “you get some sleep. I’ll check on you in a bit, okay? In the meantime, if you need anything, you call or text me. Got that?”

  “Mmph.”

  She slipped into a dark, chilly whirlpool.

  Damn it to hell! Why had he gone to the grocery store? The liquor store? He could have had that shit delivered, but no, he just had to get out. Quinn had no doubt he’d brought COVID home and given it to Sarah. Icy tendrils of fear wrapped around his spine like bindweed. If he’d given it to Sarah, who looked all kinds of sick, he’d exposed his mom too.

  He paced his room, his head pounding and his chest tightly banded. Four thirty in the morning. His mom would be up soon. He jogged into the kitchen and tore through every cleaner in the utility room, grabbing anything that blared “disinfectant” or “bleach.” Then he went to work cleaning, scrubbing, scouring—no easy feat for a guy with an arm in a sling who’d never been any good at cleaning in the first place. He stopped long enough to check on Sarah, who slept under Archer’s watchful eye. Her fever had dropped a few degrees, and Quinn breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You’ll come get me if she needs anything, won’t you, buddy?”

  The dog nodded once. Actually nodded. Quinn didn’t question the phenomenon anymore, he simply believed. And honestly, leaving Sarah in her room was easier to do with Archer on duty.

  Back in the kitchen, he brewed coffee and went to work disinfecting light switches, door latches, handrails.

  “What are you doing?”

  He whirled to find his mom, in a robe, giving him a puzzled look. “Son, you don’t look so good. And what happened to your arm?” She started toward him, and he backed away.

  He held up a warning hand. “Six feet, Mom. Sarah’s sick. I’m pretty sure I gave it to her, and I don’t want you catching it.”

  His mom stopped and gawped at him. “Sarah’s sick? Just what did you give her?”

  “I’m pretty sure I brought COVID home. She came down with it last night. Cough, fever, chills. She’s sleeping last I checked, but she didn’t sound so good. Right now I’m disinfecting everything. I’ll take care of you while Sarah’s under the weather, but you and I need to stay away from each other.”

  His mother folded her arms across her chest. “I can take care of myself.” She held up her own warning hand when he began to protest. Funny, he hadn’t noticed it before, but they shared similar mannerisms. “I’m not just saying that to be stubborn, Quinnie. I’m moving much easier, and I’m capable of getting my own meals and helping with yours. I’ll make sure Archer gets outside and has what he needs. Your job is to take care of Sarah.” This is when it struck him his mom was standing, not sitting in her wheelchair, and had been for the last week. His good shoulder dropped an inch or two as some of his tension lifted.

  “Now tell me what happened to your shoulder,” she said.

  He gave her the condensed, family-friendly version of last night’s fall—the one with no mention of him holding Sarah or her pushing him away.

  “I’m going to get Archer,” he said.

  She nodded. “Good. I’ll let him out and get him fed.”

  When he went back to Sarah’s room, she was struggling to sit up. Her covers were thrown back, and her sweats were in a pile beside the bed, leaving her in a skimpy tank and shorts.

  “What are you doing?” he barked.

  Wide eyes darted to his. “Getting up? I need to pee.”

  “Why’d you take your clothes off? Why aren’t you covered up?”

  She blinked at him. “I’m burning up, that’s why.” Another beat, and she added, “If I felt better, I’d laugh at the irony of this situation. Sparky wanting a girl to put her clothes on.”

  He responded with an aggravated “Hmph,” though he was all sorts of happy she felt well enough to get her snark on. He leaned down to help her sit up.

  She swung smooth, bare legs over the edge of the bed and planted her feet. “I’ve got it from here,” she said. Then she folded over and began coughing.

  “Aw, shit. I’ll get you some cough medicine.” He beckoned Archer to follow and zoomed back to the kitchen, where his mom was pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  She turned slowly. “There’s my Archer man.”

  Quinn left to plunder medicine cabinets. When he reached Sarah, she was back in bed, her eyes hooded and her breathing wheezy.

  “Hey, you okay, Sunshine?”

  “Yeah, just exhausted from my short trip to the bathroom.”

  “Lean forward,” he ordered.

  She complied.

  He punched and arranged her pillows, then leaned her back gently so she was in a reclining position. She still hadn’t put her clothes back on, and her skin was cold. Resisting the urge to throw something over her upper body, he picked up her half-full glass of Gatorade and thrust it at her. “Drink.”

  “I don’t like that stuff.” She sounded like a pissed-off two-year-old. He expected her to thrust out her lower lip at any moment. Despite how disheveled and uncomfortable she looked, she was adorable, and his heart might have bumped against his rib cage a little faster.

  “Well, tell me what you do like, and I’ll get it for you.” He handed her two gelcaps. “In the meantime, take this cough syrup and drink.” He raised his eyebrows for emphasis. She grumped, but she did as he asked.

  After arranging her sweats on the bed so she could easily reach them, he returned to the kitchen and poured his own tall mug of coffee. God, he needed caffeine. His phone lay on the counter beside him, and after downing half his brew, he thumbed a text to Nelson.

  Nelson’s response was swift: You’d better take good care of my sister.

  Quinn could practically hear his growl. But then again, Nelsy had the right. Nonetheless, Quinn rolled his eyes before replying: On it. What does she like to drink? Definitely not lemon-lime Gatorade.

  Gage: IDK. Orange juice? Beer for sure.

  Quinn resisted the urge to type, “Beer’s not gonna help, dumbass.” Instead, he went on the hunt and found a six-pack of apple juice. Watered-down juice and ibuprofen in hand, he traipsed back to her room. She’d put on her sweats again and was snuggled under the covers. He rousted her, grateful when she gulped the juice and took the pills without a fight.

  “Want something to eat?”

  She shook her head.

  He picked up the remote from her nightstand. “Can I put something on for you?”

  “As long as it’s not the critically acclaimed Big Boobs on the Beach.”

  He let out a chuckle. “Glad to see you still have your sense of humor, Sunshine.” He quickly located one of the science channels, where they were broadcasting a series about the universe. His eyes fastened on the screen. “Does it bend your mind thinking about all the stars out there and what lies beyond the universe?” he said almost to himself.

  “God, yeah. And I love it. I love this show,” Sarah mumbled before turning her head to the side and drifting off.

  “Me too,” he whispered.

  She started making cute little snoring noises, and he
stretched out on the bed beside her, the show droning in the background.

  When he woke up, there was drool on the pillow he’d apparently commandeered and a pair of different-colored hazel eyes fixed on him.

  “Wakey, wakey, Sparks. You were out cold.”

  “Hmph?” He sat up on his good elbow and looked around. “What the hell? How long have I been out?”

  “Long enough that they moved on to a series about the Bermuda Triangle.”

  He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Is it any good?”

  “Meh.”

  He dropped his head to one side and looked at her. “Then why didn’t you change it?”

  She gave him a chin lift. “Because somebody hogged the remote.”

  He glimpsed the remote still locked in his grip. “Oh shit. Sorry.” He pushed it at her. “How you feeling?”

  “Like dog pooh, but the meds are helping with the chills and aches. How’s the shoulder?”

  “Glad to hear it. Shoulder’s fine.” He sat up and gingerly stretched what he could of his upper body to keep from setting off his sore shoulder. He glanced back at her. “Need anything?”

  “I’m good for now. Is your mom doing okay?”

  Huh. She was sick yet still thinking of his mom? “Mom’s doing great. We’ve got it all worked out, so don’t worry your pretty little head. Just get better.”

  “Think I’ll fall back asleep for a bit.”

  “Good. Holler if you need anything.” He stood and blinked sleep out of his eyes.

  “Hey, Quinn?” she mumbled.

  “Yeah, babe?” How—and why—did that slip out? I’ve never called anyone “babe” in my life.

  “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  And hearing that was another first.

  Chapter 19

  But It Was Catch and Release

  Sarah got worse before she got better. For nearly four days, she toed the line labeled “delirious,” drifting in and out. Quinn had been in touch with the Blizzard’s medical staff about his shoulder and about her. They declared her not sick enough to be taken to the hospital and discouraged him from trying. If he took her in, they said, the hospital might keep her and she’d be isolated from family and friends. Screw that.