“I need to leave.” I disengage from the kiss, aware that if I don’t go, Jake may actually castrate me, or have me traded, or decide I’m not allowed to date Queenie.

She doesn’t put up a fight as I fumble for the door and extricate myself from her hold on me. “See you tomorrow, King,” she says loudly, likely for her dad’s benefit.

I blow out a breath once her door closes, leaving me in the hall, alone. I slide my wallet out of my back pocket, find my key card, and hold it over the sensor, waiting until I get the green light before I turn the handle and put yet another barrier between me and Queenie. My phone is already buzzing with messages, and I can guarantee they’re from her. There is no way I’m sneaking over there after I shower. That’s a surefire way to screw things right up. Besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea to engage in any activities that might lead to friction below the waist. It could aggravate the hives.

Bishop is lying on the double bed closest to the bathroom, flipping channels. “Dude, where the fuck have you been? I was ready to send out a search party.” He glances up from the TV, and his eyes go wide. “And what the hell happened to your face?”

“I was with the medic. I had an allergic reaction.”

“Jesus. Are you okay? What the hell did you react to? You look like plastic surgery gone wrong.”

“Strawberries, and I’m okay. Just itchy and uncomfortable.”

“You’re so careful about that. How in the world did that even happen?”

“It’s a long story. I need to shower. I’ll be out in a bit.” I cross the room and lock myself in the bathroom. I hope if I take long enough, he’ll pass out and I won’t have to answer any questions.

I turn on the shower, pull my shirt over my head, and then fold it neatly, setting it on the vanity. I caught a glimpse of myself in the elevator and in the mirror in Bill’s room, but I haven’t seen my face up close. I’ve definitely seen better days, and my chest and nipples and stomach are covered in a series of very telling red welts.

I unzip my pants and cringe when I get a look at the damage down there. My penis is an angry red color and is mottled with hives. It’s definitely not pretty. I strip out of the rest of my clothes and get in the shower, adjusting the temperature so it’s not too hot and doesn’t make the situation worse. I’m extra careful and gentle as I wash my face, neck, chest, and junk with mild soap, and no facecloth because it’s too abrasive.

Once I’m sure I’ve removed all traces of Queenie’s saliva, I pat myself dry and realize in my haste to escape Bishop’s questions, I didn’t bring anything with me to change into. I consider, briefly, putting my dirty clothes back on, but it might exacerbate the allergy issue, so I decide against it. I slather the cream all over the affected areas and wait a few minutes for it to soak in before I leave the bathroom.

I wrap a towel around my waist and cross my fingers that Bishop has passed out. Obviously, luck is not on my side tonight, because he’s still very much awake and alert when I open the bathroom door.

His brows pull together. “What the fuck? Did you do a penguin slide through a field of strawberries? How the hell does that happen? How far down does that go?” He motions to my chest, his eyes narrowing as he follows the trail to where it’s cut off by my towel.

“It’s complicated.” Logistically I can’t keep this from Bishop, but I also don’t want to provide details, because that would be unfair to Queenie. I toss my phone on the bed as I cross over to the closet. My dirty clothes go into a plastic bag, so they don’t contaminate anything else, before I pull a T-shirt from a hanger.

“Calculus is complicated. How you ended up with a rash like this must have a pretty simple explanation.” He pokes at his cheek with his tongue.

“I ran into Queenie.”

Bishop bolts up in bed. “Hold the fuck on. Were you messing around with Queenie?”

“You know I’m not comfortable sharing those kinds of details.” Just because I shared more than I meant to earlier doesn’t mean I’m going to do it again. I move to the dresser and retrieve a pair of boxer shorts. I feel like loose is probably better, and hopefully the combination of the antihistamine and the cream will calm things down below the waist; otherwise, wearing a cup tomorrow is going to be incredibly uncomfortable.

“Dude, Jake is going to shit his fucking pants if he finds out about this.”

“He already knows.”

Bishop’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head. “He knows his daughter blew you?”

“Wait, what? No. He knows we’re dating.” I shake my head. “I mean, I asked him for permission to date her, like you said. He has no idea about . . . what happened. Well, I mean, I guess he knows we were kissing, but nothing beyond that. How do you know that she . . .” I motion below my waist.

Bishop rolls his eyes. “King, bro, come the fuck on. There’s a very clear trail from your mouth all the way down. It doesn’t take a genius to know someone got on her knees for you. Obviously Jake didn’t see how far it goes.”

“No. Just my face.”

“Well, keep it that way if you want your dick to stay attached to your body.”

CHAPTER 13

EVERYTHING IS ALMOST PERFECT

Queenie

The next morning I’m up early, aware after last night that I need to be on the ball. My dad definitely doesn’t seem as upset as he could be, possibly because Kingston presents himself as an absolute golden boy, which is true, apart from when he’s naked and looking to exchange orgasms.

Sadly, Kingston did not sneak across to my room to let me help him with the cream situation. Which is probably for the best, since my dad is a light sleeper. Also, getting Kingston all worked up when his penis is covered in hives isn’t very nice.

The morning is busy for the team, so I don’t see Kingston apart from in passing. I’m not 100 percent on protocol in this situation, so I figure it’s best to let him take the lead. Which is exactly what he does, just before they hit the locker room to change for the exhibition game.

I’m standing beside my dad, looking over the schedule for the next week, when I breathe in the familiar scent of my boyfriend. I glance up to find him standing a few feet away, looking nervous, cheeks pink, face mostly back to normal. His lips have returned to their full, plush state but not like he got in a fight with a plastic surgeon.

He hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “Hi, Jake. Hi, Queenie.”

“You looked good out there during practice. You game ready?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He turns his attention to me. It looks like he’s chewing the inside of his lip. “Um . . . will I see you after the game?”

“Yeah, I don’t really have anywhere to go other than my hotel room or the pool.” Could this be any more awkward, with my father standing next to us, watching us do some approximation of the dating ritual?

I glance at my dad, hoping he’ll take the hint and give us a few seconds of privacy or whatever, but he just stands there, either oblivious or totally aware that he’s making this whole thing a million times more uncomfortable than it needs to be.

“Great. Okay. I’ll find you after the game.” Kingston nods several times in a row until it looks like he’s imitating a bobble head.

“Sure. Good luck on the ice.”

“Thanks.” He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. When he steps back, his face is on fire. “You look lovely, by the way.” He nods to my dad and then rushes to catch up with the last of the guys heading for the locker room.

“Thanks for making that super awkward, Jake.”

He arches a brow. “Now you know how I felt last night.”

“Touché.” Not much else I can say to that.

By the end of the first period, Seattle is up 2–0. Kingston skates over to the bench and pulls his helmet off. He’s a big guy at the best of times, but add all the gear and he’s mammoth. He’s also sweaty, which should be disgusting, but for some reason I find the fact that his hair is soaked and messy kind of hot. Maybe because I’m aware it’s related to his incredible stamina.

“Nice work out there in net,” my dad praises.

“Thanks. Defense is working hard to make my job easy.” He lifts the bottom of his jersey, using it to wipe away the sweat dripping down his face.

On any other day this would be totally fine. But it exposes a strip of bare stomach and with it the residual rash, leading the eye down to where it disappears into his uniform. My dad glances at his stomach, his lips turning down in a frown. I want to tell Kingston to drop his shirt, but I can’t. Bishop, however, smacks him in the arm. King gives him a What the heck? look. There’s a lot of eye widening and silent conversation happening.

My dad’s expression says everything words can’t. It’s obvious where that trail leads and what was going on in my room last night. He mutters something about going to prison for murder, turns around, and walks away.

Later, when we’re leaving the arena with the team for a postgame dinner—Seattle won 5–1—my dad falls into step beside me and mutters, “We’re setting some ground rules, FYI.”