Torn Apart (Torn and Bound Duet 1)

A snort escapes me. “Now I’m interested. How hot is he that you’d be worried I’d embarrass you by—”

Soft rapping on the open door has my words disappearing from my mouth.

Fuck.

I get it now.

Dad knows I have a type and this guy is absolutely it.

Tall, muscular, a fucking dimple.

I’m stunned stupid as I stare at Andrew’s crooked grin, focusing for far too long on how nice and pink his lips are. Lips like those would taste pretty damn good, I can guarantee it.

Dad sighs upon seeing the look on my face. “Ashton, this is Andrew Thompson. He was the starting center for the St. Louis Blues. That’s hockey in case you weren’t familiar.”

Andrew’s eyebrow arches and a smirk plays at those sinful lips of his.

“Anyway,” Dad continues. “He’s been so gracious as to agree to fill Coach Garrison’s place since he’ll be out for the foreseeable future. I don’t feel right about him staying in some cheap, filthy apartment above his friend’s bar the whole semester until some housing opens up, so I’ve offered your spare room. He’ll be within walking distance to the ice rink, which will be nice as well.”

“Why’d you leave your hockey gig?” I blurt out.

The color drains from Andrew’s tanned face and he drops his gaze to the floor, the bill of his Blues cap hiding his striking blue eyes from me. “I’m not at liberty to discuss.” His gravelly voice has a hint of shame threading in his statement.

Interesting.

“Ashton,” Dad hisses. “I’ve assured him, and even wrote it into his employment contract, that he’s not required to discuss his reasons for leaving the NHL. The point is, we’re incredibly happy to have him. It’s an opportunity our hockey team has never had before.”

Ahhh.

Now I get Dad’s play with this guy.

Ex-hockey player to coach our university’s hockey team means championships won and a potential way to recruit new players to go to school here. There’s always an angle with my dad—one that has him smelling like a fucking rose.

“The room’s all yours. It’s technically a guest room, but I was using it to study,” I tell Andrew. “I guess I’ll have to work in my room until you leave.”

Dad shakes his head at me. We both know I don’t study, but he’s not going to correct me on it in front of this guy. Dad has become the master of choosing his battles with me.

“Great. I appreciate it,” Andrew says, tipping his head up to look at me.

Goddamn, he’s hot.

Blue eyes that are nearly electric with intensity. Lips that pout out just a bit but seem to be inclined to tip up in a smile. A neck corded with muscle and a lickable Adam’s apple. His shoulders are broad like Brayden’s—the fact that I whacked off last night in the shower to that prick’s image was regrettable—so it must be a hockey player thing.

Maybe I do have a thing for athletes.

His navy-blue hoodie is stretched across his biceps, which makes me a little excited to see him take it off later. I’d been joking about me walking around in my boxers to fuck with Dad, but the truth is, I’d give my left nut just to see Andrew walk around with his shirt off.

I wonder if he’s tatted.

I wonder if he has those sexy V muscles that point right to his dick.

I wonder what his naked ass looks like.

Turning my back, I walk down the hall, gesturing for him to follow me. With each step, heat burns down my spine. My dick is half hard in my jeans. I’m so fucked if this guy is going to live here with me. There’s nothing worse than wanting someone who will never want you in return. Typically, I can tell when a guy bats for the other team, or might even swing both ways, but this guy screams chick magnet to me.

“Here you go,” I grunt as I stand in the doorway to the guest room, waving inside.

“Nice view.” His deep voice rumbles its way right to my dick.

Since he’s so solid, he has to turn slightly to get past me in the doorway. His arm brushes against my chest as he passes, and I get a lungful of his scent.

Soap.

He smells like soap.

Since when does soap smell like sinful happy endings?

As he inspects the small space, I try not to wonder if he showered before he came over. Did he jerk off in the shower? I bet he’s fucking hung. Now that I’m thinking of his dick, I can’t unthink it. Things grow more awkward when Dad walks over to me and clutches my shoulder.

“Thanks for doing this, Son.”

Not like I had a choice.

“No problem,” I mutter, unable to make my tongue work properly.

Andrew sets a bag down on the bed and then peeks out the window that does, in fact, have a good view of the pond. When it gets cold as shit, as it always does in Michigan, people ice skate on it.