Gametime: A Moo U Hockey Romance Jami Davenport (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📖

on him, as I edged the sheet lower and lower to reveal a cock once again hard, ready, able, and willing. I traced the tat that rode low on his flat stomach between his hip bone and his dick. I’d wondered last night if he’d had any tats. I’d figured a guy like him had to have tats.

Leaning in, I licked his tattoo with my tongue. His tat was simple. Crossed hockey sticks with his jersey number in the center in Moo U green and white.

I blinked a few times, certain I was dyslexic. I stared harder.

Fifteen?

One five?

Patrick’s jersey number was fifty-one. I knew his number better than I knew my own cell phone number.

I had to be reading it wrong. That brain fog thing from drinking and fucking.

I squinted at the number as I absently traced it over and over again.

Patrick held still, not even breathing.

Fifteen.

Fifteen.

Fifteen.

Why would Patrick have his twin brother’s number on his—?

His identical twin brother.

Identical.

I gaped at the tattoo in horror.

The reality of the situation slammed into me harder than a rabid defenseman slamming me against the boards.

Oh. My. God.

What have I done?

I was going to be sick, throw up, or die of embarrassment. I’d slept with the wrong twin. I’d slept with my friend. My very good friend. My confidant. The guy who was always there for me.

And he’d told me he loved me. I’d said those three words back thinking he was someone else. I’d had sex over and over believing he was someone else. I’d been shameless in my lust for him—no, not him, someone else.

For two years, Paxton had listened sympathetically as I crushed on Patrick, and he’d never once let on that he had a thing for me until last night.

I was mortified, but not for myself, for him.

If—correction, when—he realized my mistake, he’d be humiliated beyond belief. Our friendship might not survive this. Damage control must happen immediately. The truth would deal his pride a mortal blow, but he had to know the truth. To continue with this charade would only make things worse.

But how to do to it? How to let him down carefully with his dignity intact but tattered?

“Naomi, what’s wrong?” Patrick, no, Paxton asked. Concern weighted his tone. My reaction aroused his suspicions. He wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was pretty damn smart.

“I…I…” My brain churned through possible solutions to handle this mess in the kindest way possible. I averted my eyes, certain he’d read the truth there before I had a chance to decide on a course of action.

“Naomi?” His voice shook, taking on a more frantic tone. He knew something had gone wrong, horribly wrong.

Finally, I raised my head to meet his gaze.

And the excruciating truth of what I’d done was mirrored in his horrified blue eyes.

He realized I’d thought he was Patrick.

I’d banged the wrong twin and loved every moment of it, while giving him the courage to pour out his heart. I’d bludgeoned his pride and irreparably harmed one of the nicest guys I’d ever known. Shame crashed over me, mortification for what I’d done to him.

I’d been in hot messes before but nothing that’d so humiliated someone I deeply cared about.

And I had no one to blame but my drunken self.

3

Damage Control

Paxton

Adequate words didn’t exist that did justice to my soul-deep humiliation. My pride had been laid to waste by a nuclear explosion of massive proportions, and my ego had been slammed against the boards with a hit so monumental it should’ve been shown repeatedly on all the sucker-in-love highlight clips. If only the earth would open up and swallow me, never to be heard from again.

I had to come up with a plan to save face by wiping the pity and absolute mortification off Naomi’s face. That’d happen later. Right now, I was too raw to devise a plan beyond being buried alive, which really wasn’t a viable option.

After wandering aimlessly, I sought refuge on the ice that afternoon. Skating had been my personal therapy whenever life was more than I could handle, such as when my dad was being a bigger asshole than usual. The night my mother died in a car accident, I’d gone to the rink and skated until I almost passed out from exhaustion. Being on the ice was healing, and I desperately needed to heal my fractured heart right now.

Only this time, my dad hadn’t crushed the joy out of me, Naomi had.

I took to the ice, glad that no one else was around. Even though Sundays were our days off, sometimes guys showed up to skate. Not today. Most likely too many hangovers after the victory party last night.

I tortured myself by running back through the events of the prior night. I’d played a mediocre game. Patrick had been the star. My dad had been present for the first game of the season, and he’d barely acknowledged my presence while raining criticism down on Patrick. I don’t know which was worse—neglect or verbal abuse. All par for the course.

After the game, when he wasn’t tearing Patrick’s performance apart, he’d disgusted us both with his bootlicking of Naomi’s dad, Gene Smith. Mr. Smith was an NHL legend and Moo U grad, and my dad craved his attention like a small child craved the last cookie in the cookie jar.

His cruel indifference had driven me to get wasted drunk that night. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I only knew I needed someone to show I mattered. Naomi had, or I thought she had.

The most epic sex I’d ever experienced was followed by the single most demeaning experience of my life. Naomi had tried to cover it up, but one look at her, and I knew. I’d laughed it off, claimed it was all drunken nonsense and didn’t mean anything. Then I’d gotten my ass out of there.

I’d avoided going home to the apartment I shared with my twin. Patrick would see the devastation in my eyes, and I couldn’t tell him the truth, even though we