Colliding Love - Tucker Billi...

After Sawyer left me on the dancefloor, I mingled with my teammates for a little while before I found myself lingering in her general area. Staying at any party this long isn't my normal behavior. But Sawyer has been pounding the drinks like getting drunk is her actual job tonight, and leaving her at the mercy of anyone doesn't sit right with me. Maybe there are good people on this island, but it only takes one bad apple.

When she comes out of the bathroom close to midnight, I'm exhausted, but keeping close. As I start to approach her, the slick politician who talked to me a few days ago steps into my line of vision, clearly also headed toward Sawyer.

Something inside of me tightens at the idea of him being anywhere near her.

"Doc," I call before he can get to her.

Her gaze is glassy when she meets mine, and she steps toward me, her hands landing on my biceps to keep her steady.

"I'll get her home," slimy politician says beside me.

"No," Sawyer says, shaking her head. She doesn't even look in his direction. "You." She taps me in the chest with her index finger.

"You don't even know this guy," slimy politician says, his tone frustrated and slightly angry.

"But I know you," she says, tearing her gaze from mine to meet his.

Something I don't like passes between them, and I shift to put my body between the two of them. The vibe is all wrong.

"I've got her," I say to him, standing tall. I've got several inches on him, and there's a substantial difference in our muscle mass, I'm sure. And I can fight. Been doing it since I was a kid. "Take a step back before I help you do that."

Sawyer is pressed to my back, and it almost feels like she's hiding.

"You going to lay hands on me? It'd be costly."

"I've got money."

"The government has more. And assaulting a member of the Advisory Council is a capital crime. Substantial jail time."

"You'll swing first. Then it's self-defense."

"Sawyer's well-loved on the island. The Tucker family is a big deal here."

"I've heard." I reach back a hand to Sawyer, and I land on her hip. Her hand settles over mine, and she squeezes. Feels like an agreement that I'm fighting the right battle.

"I wouldn't be doing my civic duty if I didn't make sure she gets home unharmed," he says.

"Sure, if she was alone. But she's got me."

"How do I know you're trustworthy?"

"Sawyer trusts me." Two of my defensemen must have spotted the brewing trouble, and they close ranks beside me. Radek and Auston don't say a word, but they block any view this dickhead would have of Sawyer.

"Everything alright here?" Radek asks, a thick Czech accent coating the words.

"Dalton Worthington," slimy politician guy says, extending his hand. Any hint of animosity disappears in a puff of smoke. "Just making sure your guy is on the up and up, given that Sawyer's had so much to drink."

"I'd trust Bishop with any woman in my life," Auston says. "Any day. All day. He's not laying a hand on her that she doesn't want."

"When she's had that much, consent—"

"She's my physiotherapist," I say, fed up with Dalton's bullshit. "She lays her hands on me. I don't lay them on her."

Yet.

The thought hits without me wanting it to, but I'm not an idiot. There's a strange concoction brewing between me and Sawyer. Could be friendship. Could be something else.

"Wouldn't want our star player getting in trouble." Dalton holds up his hands, a friendly grin aimed at Auston and Radek. "No harm meant."

I scoff and turn to look at Radek. We've played together on the same line for the last three years, and I'm sure he can read the expression on my face the same way he read my tense posture two minutes ago.

"Have a good night, Mr. Worthington," Auston says.

Auston is Canadian, and this version of his Canadian-ness is my favorite. Polite with an edge of "don't fuck with us" solidarity.

"I will. Same to you, boys," he says before turning on his heel and walking away.

"What the fuck was that about?" Auston asks.

I'm still bristling at the "boys" comment as though we're playing at being men as I watch him walk out of the bar. When I turn, Sawyer folds into me.

"You okay?" I murmur into the top of her head.

"I feel sick," she whispers back, and she's clinging to my suit jacket.

"I'm going to get her home," I say to Auston and Radek. "As for what that was, I don't fucking know." But I strongly suspect there's hi온라인카지노게임 between him and Sawyer. Or he wishes there was. His vibe was more possessive than protective.

"Pissing off a politician within a week of getting here wasn't the plan," Auston says.

I don't tell him that it's not the first time we've run into each other, and that my agenda and Dalton's might have just vastly diverged. Until tonight, I hadn't quite decided. But fuck that guy. I'll stay with the Bellerive Bullets just to spite him.

"I'll see you at practice tomorrow," I say, taking Sawyer's hand and leading her through the crowd. With my other hand, I text the driving service the organization assigned to me. Every time, it seems to be a different person picking me up.

"If you're going to be sick, tell me," I say.

"Okay," she says, her voice dull and numb.

In the car, I bundle her into the backseat and slide in beside her. We've barely left the bar when she taps the driver to pull over. She opens the door, and as she heaves, I grab a fistful of her hair, keeping it from sliding in front of her face.

She eases back into the seat and closes the door. Her eyes flutter shut, and I make a decision, giving the driver the new address.

At my apartment, I lift her out of the backseat, and I carry her inside. The doorman eyes me, but he doesn't say anything while he helps me get the elevator. On the way up, Sawyer curls into me, an arm draped around my neck.

When we get to the apartment door, Sawyer says, "Hey, I know where I am. Put me down."

I slide her down my body and keep her steady with one arm while I punch in the code for the door with my other. She stumbles inside and then stops dead in the entrance.

"Oh, right. Nathaniel doesn't live here anymore." She turns to me, shoulders slumped, barely holding herself together. "Why am I here?" The words are slurred.

"I wonder if I should be getting your stomach pumped." I help her toward the guest room, and when we get there, she fumbles with the back of her dress, unable to reach the zipper.

"Can you?" she asks, gesturing to her back.

I undo the hook and eye above the zipper, and I draw the metal teeth down her spine. When she glances at me over her shoulder, I'm actually grateful she still smells faintly like vomit, or this might be too sexually charged.

Instead of lowering the zipper all the way, I set it at a spot she should be able to reach, and I smooth a hand over her hair. She winces at the contact.

"Is your head sore?"

"Yeah," she says, breathing out. "It's getting better."

"What happened? Was that tonight?"

"A couple weeks ago."

"And it's still sore?"

"Yeah."

I stare at her for a beat. We don't know each other, but it feels a bit like we do. Or we could. Or maybe it's just that I want to. "Why is it sore?"

"I hurt myself," she says, and she reaches around and tugs the zipper down all the way. "I don't have pajamas or a toothbrush or anything."

"I can get you something. How'd you hurt yourself?"

"Banged my head."

"Do you have a concussion?" I take that shit very seriously.

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe I did."

"You didn't get checked?"

"No." She holds the dress around herself, and under normal circumstances, seeing her clinging to a flimsy piece of material while we're alone in a room with a bed would be fan-fucking-tastic, but all I can think about is her being drunk with an undiagnosed concussion.

She's too drunk for me to grill her, though that's all I want to do. Drill into whatever she's not telling or admitting about that head injury. I scan the rest of her, looking for any other signs of injury, but there's nothing obvious.

"Pajamas?" She gives me a hopeful look.

"Tomorrow, you and I are having a discussion about you looking after yourself."

She salutes me, and I just shake my head before going to the closet in the room. Before I left California, I swiped a brand-new practice jersey. I yank it off the hanger and approach her, the front of the dress still clutched in her fists.

"Arms up, doc," I say.

She gives me a playful look before throwing her arms up, and the dress falls to the floor.

Keep your eyes on her face, Bishop.

Somehow I manage to keep my eyes up as I tug the jersey over her head, and she slides her arms through. She swims in it, which makes it both a perfect nightshirt and the embodiment of every wet dream I've had since thirteen. I've never actually put any woman in my jersey before, and I'm really regretting doing it right now.

"You're really this big?" She holds up her arms where the sleeves have engulfed her hands.

I swallow, tempted to tell her to hold that thought for another time when she's sober. The chances of any of my dirty thoughts happening are pretty low, so I keep my flirty comment to myself. She probably wouldn't remember anyway.

"Were you trying to hide your hotness under all that mess before?" She steps close to me, and she rubs my chin and then along my cheek with her thumb.

"I like it better when the attention's on my hockey. Sponsors like it better when the attention's on both."

"Ah, so you did this makeover for money?" She drops her hand.

I consider letting her believe that, but her eyes are so glassy that her memory will be shit tomorrow. "I did it for you." I could have gotten away with another few weeks of a messy appearance before the season kicks off.

Her gaze lights with delight, and a wide grin splits her face. "Really?"

"Really," I say, almost returning her smile. She's so fucking pretty it's painful. "Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you."

Then her smile fades, and she peers at me carefully. "But, like, I don't want you to change for me."

"You're safe. We barely know each other." She's said it with such intensity that I know there's more to her comment. And my response is accurate, but I don't know if it's truthful. Today tilted things between us in an unexpected way, and I think I do know her, at least a little.

"You shouldn't change who you are for someone else because then you stop knowing who you are at all."

"Is that so?"

"It is. Trust me." Her words are slightly slurred.

Rather than prying, which is what I really want to do, I say, "I'll get you that toothbrush."

Her hand flies to her mouth, and her already pink cheeks go bright red. "Do I smell like vomit?"

"A little."

"Oh, my god. I'm so sorry." She covers her face with her hands. "My dad and Alex tell me to show you a good time, and I throw up in your car and then you have to look after me."

That's a loaded comment that I'm not touching. Having met her father, the "good time" comment could mean all sorts of things that I doubt I'd like. If he's trying to pimp out Sawyer to keep me happy, I might actually murder him. Especially when Ava seemed eager to fulfill the playmate role without any obvious encouragement. Even if I was into casual sex, Ava's not my type.

"You didn't throw up in the car," I say before going into the en suite bathroom attached to the guest bedroom and digging around until I find a spare toothbrush still in its packaging. There's a small travel sized toothpaste too, and I set both on the counter.

I'm not sure if Nathaniel left a lot of this shit behind, or if the team stocked the place with random essentials, but right now, I'm grateful. She really does smell a bit like vomit, and if I had a weak stomach, I'd be fucked.

While she brushes her teeth, I get her a glass of water, a Gatorade, and some aspirin and set up everything on the nightstand.

"Do not take the meds until the morning," I say as she crawls into bed.

"Okay," she says, yawning. "This is pretty." She fingers the quilt on the bed.

"Cost me a million dollars," I admit, tucking it around her. For some reason, my throat grows tight at the idea of her sleeping in this bed with this blanket. "You ever slept under a million-dollar quilt before?"

"I don't know," she says, her eyes fluttering closed. "I never ask how much things cost."

Her comment drives home how differently we were raised. I can't imagine not knowing or asking or even assuming the value of something. But to Sawyer, those were details that didn't matter as a kid or as an adult.

Her breathing evens out, and for the first time since we left the bar, a twinge of unease sets in. I've been a loner for most of my life, and that's suited me. Apart from Chayton a time or two, I've never looked after anyone other than myself.

But here I am, a fucking mother hen, over Sawyer Tucker, a woman who could afford to pay someone a hefty sum to watch over her by the minute without even batting an eye. Bringing her home with me was some kind of madness.

I don't know what I'm getting myself into with her, but I already feel in too deep. 

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