Ryan cursed as he continued to swipe and smear the blood coating the lower half of his face.

  Fox moved behind me, out of the way but ready to back me up or force Ryan through the door if I needed him. I didn’t. Ryan glared at me as he hovered in the open door.

  “Fucking slut,” he muttered, as I slammed the door in his face.

  I shook my head and leaned against the door.

  “Congratulations on getting rid of the douche,” Fox said with a smug grin. “Care to toast with that vodka I brought? Hitting that bastard sobered me up a bit, and I’m not ready to be sober yet.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Fox?” I asked in a gentle voice that included a hint of annoyance, but also gratitude for having helped with Ryan. I took a few steps into the kitchen to retrieve the vodka bottle and set it on the counter.

  “I blew it, Sasha. Like I always do,” he said as he moved to the couch and dropped onto the overstuffed cushions.

  I sighed. “I’m sure you didn’t blow it. They were just looking for something different.”

  “No. I choked. Again.” He groaned and leaned his head onto the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

  I felt bad for him. But I’d never tell him that. He was struggling. He wasn’t the only athlete I’d met like this. So many of my father’s and grandfather’s friends had been through the same thing. Watching him over the years had given me the idea for my story.

  Now seeing Fox on the couch with little flecks of Ryan’s blood splattered on his shirt, bits of peanut shells stuck to his shoes, and reeking of booze, I wondered again at the long-term psychological impact on professional athletes who’d been trained for nothing else since they were children. Especially those who failed to succeed. I could help people with a story like this—focusing on those who never seemed to reach their promised potential. I slid a glance at my friend. Maybe even help Fox.

  I hated seeing him like this. And I knew there was no reasoning with him.

  “I’m sorry if I caused a problem with ass-face,” Fox said, pushing himself into a more upright position.

  “Don’t be. I was in the process of breaking up with him when you showed up,” I said, crossing the room to drop onto the couch next to him. I put my feet up on the coffee table and turned toward Fox. A wave of alcohol fumes wafted over me, making my eyes water, and I cringed away from him. “Ugh,” I groaned, leaning as far away from him as I could. “God, did you spill your beer in the toilet and then roll around in it?”

  Fox looked down at his sweatshirt, pinched it between his fingers, and raised the fabric toward his nose to take a sniff. He shrugged and let it drop down again. “It smells like my career, is all.”

  I laughed wryly. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” I stood and reached out a hand to pull him to his feet.

  “I’m the only one left, you know,” he said. “All my friends on the team—they’re all getting their shot.” He snorted. “I guess it makes sense I wouldn’t get mine. That’s my job as a goalie, to block the shots. Wish I was better in the other direction.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” I muttered as I tugged him in the direction of the bathroom. “You need to sober up. Then you’ll realize that there’s no way you’re the only one left from your team. I know you can’t play hockey with just a goalie. Someone’s gotta score the goals on the other team.”

  “I’ve scored on myself before,” he mumbled. “Does that count?”

  I pushed him through the bathroom door. He sat on the toilet fully clothed, and leaned his head against the wall.

  “Are you looking to me for an ego boost?” I asked, bending down to pull off his shoes and socks. “If you are, I’m afraid I’m all out.” I tossed the shoes back out the bathroom door and into the hallway. “I’ve been busy stroking Ryan’s ego for far too long.”

  “Is that the only thing of his you’ve been stroking?” Fox teased.

  “God, you’re as crude as he is.” I rolled my eyes and moved to pull Fox’s sweatshirt up and over his head. He offered no resistance to me stripping him. It wasn’t the first time I’d helped him when he was drunk. Though usually he was sober enough to get into the shower on his own.

  “I’m drunk,” he stated. “He was a sober prick. Never liked that asshole.”

  “Yes, you said that before. I don’t know how, but I always manage to find them, don’t I?” I shook my head at myself as Fox pulled his arms through the sleeves of his T-shirt and tossed it to the floor with his sweatshirt. He wasn’t dirty or sweaty. He’d probably showered in the locker room after his tryout.

  My eyes flicked quickly over the lean muscles of his torso, arms, and chest. Jesus, he’d always been hot, but damn. Was that a new tattoo? I studied the small eagle on his shoulder and was careful not to touch it, even if I sort of wanted to.

  I swallowed hard as I ran my arm around his waist. Fox fell somewhere between my brothers in body type. Dax wasn’t as bulky as most football players, but he was still the most massive of the Coulter boys. Bryce and Gage were both lean, though Gage had several inches in height on both Bryce and Fox. But Fox had built up noticeable muscle mass while carrying around the weight of his goalie pads. My eyes drifted down to his thighs, which were snug in his jeans. Skating had definitely given him powerful legs.

  Fox caught me looking and grinned. “See something you like?”

  I ducked my head. “Be serious, Fox.”

  “Did you want to help me with my pants, as well, or do you think I can manage those on my own?” He asked with a lazy smirk.

  I flushed as he laughed. “I was just making sure you hadn’t pissed yourself,” I shot back. “Now do you think you can stand without falling over?” I hoped he could because it was one thing to ogle his strong chest, but the full monty might give me a view I hadn’t bargained on. My stomach flipped at the thought.

  He used the towel bar to help pull himself up, knocking the hand towels off in the process. Looking me square in the eye, he reached down to unbutton his jeans and unzip his fly. With a hard swallow, I kept my eyes on his while he eased his jeans over his hips. He slipped the denim down his legs and stepped out of them, kicking them into the hallway with the rest of his clothes. His boxers stayed on. Holy hell. My mouth watered.

  “What is it that cops have drunk people do again? When they pull them over and make them get out of the car?” His gaze wandered from me to the frosted glass of my shower door.

  “I don’t have any personal experience with that one, and as far as I’m aware, you don’t, either. And I’m certainly not going to let you risk changing that tonight,” I said, as I turned away to reach the small linen closet next to the shower. I pulled out an oversized towel and handed it to Fox. “You’ll sleep on the couch tonight. I think I’ve got some of your clothes tucked in the back of my closet from the last time you pulled a stunt like this. I’ll go see if I can dig them out for you.”

  “Wait,” he said, reaching for me. He missed and crashed against the door of the shower.

  “What the hell, Fox?” I muttered, grabbing him by his upper arms to help steady him. “You’re supposed to open the door before you try to go through it,” I teased when I was certain he hadn’t broken anything on either himself or the shower.

  “I don’t know how this shower works. Hard to do when drunk.”

  I rolled my eyes and gave him a little push so I could slide past him enough to reach in and turn the water on. “Left is hot, right is cold. Do you think you can remember that?”

  He muttered and laughed. “Got it.”

  I let out a low, breathy laugh. “I’ll go find your clothes.” I brushed past him and closed the bathroom door behind me, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.

  The clothes weren’t in the closet where I thought they’d be. Instead, I found the box in question in the spare room that Ryan had promised to help me turn into an office. So far, it only held a beanbag chair, a folding table, cartons filled with some of Ryan’s vintage gaming systems, and the box I was searching for.

  The box contained all of Fox’s things I’d acquired over the years, the miscellaneous articles of clothing and accessories he’d left at the various places I’d lived. I knew he had a similar box at his place for all of the things I’d forgotten to take home with me, too.

  Every year or two, we swapped boxes to return each other’s stuff and laughed over how long we’d been looking for the contents. As I looked at the box tucked away in the corner next to the gaming systems Ryan said he was going to sell on eBay, I realized just how much I’d had to adjust to accommodate Ryan and his petty jealousies.

  I should have known better than to start dating him in the first place. I was already swamped with schoolwork and working at the restaurant. I knew I didn’t have the time to devote to a relationship. But he had been so encouraging in the beginning, hadn’t he? It was difficult to remember just how things had been in those early days. He was the one with the internship at the station, getting ready to graduate in just a few months.

  He’d had a few credits left to take, and was due to graduate in the winter. He had seemed impressed by the fact that I was applying for the same internship the following spring semester. When the station offered him a job, it had just been easier to let things progress since we’d be able to see one another whenever I was on site for the internship.

  I laughed humorlessly. That was my pattern. I got involved with him because he was going to be around anyway. He was a constant, and I didn’t have to think. And shit, he’d paid a lot of attention to me. I’d moved in with him so we’d have more time together because just working together wasn’t enough for Ryan. My focus had always been on the work, and his focus had always been on me, and having as much of me as I would let him take. And still, it wasn’t enough for him.

  As I hefted the box of Fox’s belongings into my arms and carried it down the hall to our bedroom—my bedroom—to put back in my closet, I glanced at Ryan’s things scattered about and wondered if I would feel anything with him gone. We’d been together for almost a year. There had been moments of fun, but lately it was like our relationship was the distraction and work was where I was enjoying myself. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? What I felt was relief, pure and simple.

  I should feel bad about Fox punching Ryan. That would be the adult thing to do. But I found it oddly amusing. And butterflies fluttered low in my belly when I thought about the look on Fox’s face when he’d hit him. Ryan had been hurting me, and there was no way Fox would ever let that happen.

  I knocked on the bathroom door with a set of clothes for Fox tucked under my arm. “Fox?” I called. “I’m going to leave your clean clothes on the floor just outside the door. Okay?”

  There was no response from inside.

  “Fox?” I called again. “Just say, ‘okay’ and I’ll leave you alone. I need you to let me know you’re all right.”

  There was still no answer.

  Given how drunk he was, I didn’t want to take any chances on him doing damage to himself or my bathroom. I was counting on that security deposit.

  The doorknob turned—he hadn’t locked it when I left. When I saw that he was in the shower with his boxers on, I was both relieved and amused. I stepped into the bathroom and set his clothes on the counter next to the sink.

  He was sitting on the floor of the shower with his back to the water. I didn’t think he was crying, but he was hanging his head.

  “Can you stand up?” I asked, banging my hand lightly on the frosted glass.

  His head jerked up, and he looked completely broken. He looked terrible, having slipped from his jolly drunken state into a self-pitying condition that he generally had a difficult time escaping without help.

  “Christ,” I said under my breath. Impulsively, I pulled off my own shirt and pants. I opened the door to the shower and climbed in, turning the water temperature up a bit higher. I gave myself a moment to get used to the water and let it soak my hair and underwear before I crouched carefully beside Fox and reached out to touch him.

  “Come on,” I said gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Can you turn around a bit? Come on, up you go.” I tried to hide the concern in my voice.

  I tried not to pay any attention to the expanse of muscle in front of me, trying to ignore the colorful tattoos that wound around Fox’s arms and chest, the light fuzz that dusted his pecs, and the trail of dark hair from his belly button to— I glanced down.

  Oh, holy hell.

  The cotton fabric of his boxer briefs clung to him. And there was no mistaking the outline of his— I swallowed hard. This was not why I was here. I was here to help him.

  Once I had him on his feet, I turned around and reached for the shower gel and sponge. Gently, I lathered him up from shoulder to shoulder and down his pecs to the expanse of his abs.

  Jesus, that really is a damn washboard.

  When most of the blood was gone, I turned him again and lifted the showerhead to help rinse him off. I watched as the soap trails ran off of his perfect body, licking my lips nervously.

  No. You are not here to ogle him. You are here to get him clean, to sober him up.

  I added more gel to the sponge and moved to his face, gently wiping away the blood cresting his nose and upper lip.

  “You know you didn’t have to do that,” I said softly.

  Fox’s lips turned up in a weak, lopsided smile. “Yes, I did. He put his hands on you. I had to make sure he remembered to never do that again.”

  “I don’t like you fighting over me,” I said.

  He shook his head, “One-time deal, I promise. It’s just, when I saw his hand on you, I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”

  “Yeah, well, I hate to see you hurt.”

  He grinned. “You should see the other guy.”

  I shook my head. “Let me rephrase that. I hate to see you hurting anyone on my behalf. You and I both know I can take care of myself.”

  His gaze locked on my lips for a moment. “I know that. Still, I’m never going to be okay with him putting his hands on you like that. There has to be some benefit from having a friend as big as me. That way, you get to walk softly and carry a big stick.”

  Oh, shit. He said stick.

  This made my mind immediately drift to the length of his erection pressing into my hip. It was as if he knew I was thinking about it. Resolutely, I kept my gaze on his eyes. I saw the flicker of mischievousness in them. I also saw something else. Was it interest? No, this was Fox. He was a flirt. He had swaths of women lined up for him. His last name played a big part in that because he had money, but the main reason women lined up for Fox Coulter was his damn face. The guy could easily be a movie star with his full lips, high cheekbones, and that straight, regal nose. His deep-set eyes burned a bright blue every time he gazed at me.

  I’m going to combust.

  Then there was his body. He had a ridiculous build, the kind you had to work hard for, but not overly done. He was tall and muscular, but lean at the same time.

  “Just go ahead and ignore that big stick. I’ve had a lot to drink, and as far as he’s concerned, you’re a warm, available female. Don’t mind him.”

  I tried to deflect. “What is this stick you speak of?”

  The thick length of him twitched again, almost causing me to moan. When was the last time I’d had a good, old-fashioned, toe-curling orgasm?

  Hell, when was the last time I even had the opportunity?

  Ryan didn’t like kissing. He thought it was weird, so for over a year no one had even kissed me properly. The kind of kisses that made the panties wet, the hair wild, and the belly buzz and flip around. Man, I missed those kinds of kisses.

  Fox licked his bottom lip. As he leaned in closer, I held my ground and kept my gaze locked on his.

  “Sash—” the way he said my name was almost a question. As if he were trying to determine what was happening. Trying to decide if he should give in to our tension. Trying to figure out what the hell we were doing.

  I took a deliberate step back. I reminded myself that I had no desire to be yet another notch on Fox Coulter’s bedpost. The Coulter boys were notorious, from Bryce all the way down to Gage. Fox was no different from his brothers. His exploits were legendary. He’d told me about most of them himself.

  Do you really want to be one of those girls, one of those groupies?

  Hell, yes! My libido screamed even as my mind tried to talk me out of it. Regardless, I still had no desire to be another notch.

  I purposefully positioned the showerhead between us, rinsing him off. By gently cupping some water, I began washing away the soap that was on his face. He looked normal with all the blood washed away, back to my Fox. The spell had been broken, and we were again two best friends, who hadn’t crossed any lines we couldn’t come back from. Everything was just about back to normal.

  Thank God.

  “Come on, Fox,” I said, wringing out the cloth and letting the water soak it again. “There’s more to this. You’ve been through this before and you never got this bad. And it’s more than just some of your friends getting the call and not you. Spill.” I kept washing him, telling myself it was for his benefit. Liar.

  The noise he made was somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “I’m a Coulter,” he stated flatly.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Coulters don’t fail. We just…don’t. Except me. I fail. I’m a failure.” He said with quiet conviction.

  I dropped the washcloth to the floor and reached over to pull him toward me, resting his wet head against my shoulder, enveloping his big body in my own. “You are not a failure, and your family isn’t perfect. Look at your grandfather. He didn’t medal in the Olympics.”

  “No, he just helped Gram defect and then won two Super Bowls.”

  “And your dad…he was better at basketball than baseball,” I said, ignoring his counter-arguments.

  “He still made the pros for both.”

  “Bryce choked his first time in the semi—”