“You’ve got quite the mouth on you. Made some very explicit requests.” Chase smirked and took a sip of his coffee before he continued. “Sounds like Morrison wasn’t exactly keeping up his end of the bargain in the bedroom.”

I wanted to crawl back under the covers. Or maybe die. Dying sounded pretty good right now.

“But no, I didn’t take you up on your many colorful offers. It might have been tempting, if not for the fact that you could barely walk straight. And you threw up on my shoes.”

I cringed. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay to replace them.”

“Don’t worry about it. I think I got most of it off.” He nodded to the foot of the bed, where my skirt and tank top lay neatly folded. “And your clothes are there. I washed them.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Oh, trust me, I did. Otherwise, this place would have reeked of vomit and Malibu.”

7. no evidence, no crime

CHAPTER 7

NO EVIDENCE, NO CRIME

Chase

Coach Miller probably scheduled dryland training at the crack of dawn on Mondays specifically to fuck up the start of my week. Out of all the players on the team, I hated early mornings the most, and Miller knew it. We butted heads constantly, and he loved to torture me. Or “build character,” as he liked to say.

At least it was over with for today. He’d even gone light on the burpees for once. Now all I had to do was stretch and foam roll, grab a shower, and head home for a good two-hour nap before my first class at ten-thirty. Probably hit the drive-through somewhere in there too. Then back to the rink at four. By the time that was done, I’d be too tired to do much else—which, I suspected, was Miller’s intention.

Dallas and I limped into the stretching area and sprawled out on the cushioned red mats, still short of breath from our drills. He leaned over his calf, pulling up on the toes of his black Nike sneakers to stretch out his hamstring.

“Morrison’s ex? That’s who was at our place Saturday night?” He let out a low whistle, leaning deeper into his stretch. “Are you trying to make life harder for yourself? Now the Bulldogs are really going to have it out for you next weekend.”

They had it out for me already anyway. I was public enemy number one, which was perfectly fine with me. It made derailing their game that much easier, just like I had this weekend—like taking shots on an empty net.

“You didn’t let me finish. Nothing happened.” I stood up and grabbed a black foam roller off the rack, then lay back down with it. “She was too drunk.”

“Are you going to call her? Try for a do-over?”