Third Man In: An Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 2) by G.K. Brady

Author:G.K. Brady [Brady, G.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Trefoil Publishing
Published: 2019-12-15T16:00:00+00:00

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Sometime in the night, he awoke facedown on his bed, his head pounding as though an army of monkeys had been let loose on bongo drums. Gingerly, he lifted it and looked around. One bedside lamp glowed, revealing that he was fully clothed in the same sweaty gym clothes. But for the outline his body had pressed into the comforter and the drool where his mouth had been, his bed hadn’t been disturbed. Ford lay beside him, head on a pillow, squeaking softly, his paws quivering in a frantic imitation of full-out running.

Shit! Did I let him out one last time before passing out? Jesus, maybe having another living thing depend on him was a really bad idea.

T.J. rolled over cautiously and pulled himself up, wincing at the steady tattoo in his skull. He wobbled into the bathroom, flipped on a light, and peered at himself in the mirror. A strange reflection stared back at him, and he blinked. Blinked again. It didn’t help. Venturing another peek, he cringed at his reflected image.

What the actual hell?

Streaks of gold, canary yellow, red, rust, pink, and brown streaked his hair, his shirt, his shorts. His fingers were covered in color. He looked as though he’d been bombarded by a flock of loose-boweled fowl. Stumbling to his living room, he stiff-armed the wall to keep himself upright. Where the birds had blitzed him, something else entirely had blown up his condo. Paper was scattered among tubes of paint—acrylic and watercolor—pencils, brushes, pallets, and jars filled with cloudy gray water. An art store had been attacked and detonated in his living room. And dining room. And kitchen. When his eyes landed on the empty Jameson bottle, fuzzy puzzle pieces began fitting themselves together.

Yes, he had taken Ford out one last time—Thank Christ!—which also meant the brown stains were not from the dog. Yes, he had hauled out every artist’s accessory he owned—and hadn’t touched in a decade—and attempted to paint … What?

Sinking to his knees, he began sifting through scads of paper. Evidence of his inner Claude Monet, sadly, was absent. A mess of dabs, blobs, and lines of color convinced him he’d been going for a Picasso-crossed-with-Andy-Warhol theme in an imitation of a disjointed Campbell’s soup can. Or Van Gogh with a dash of Salvador Dali. Definitely not Monet. This artist extravaganza was a mixture of Jameson and Shanstrom all the way.

The farther into piles of paper he dug, the more recognizable the images became. Eyes? He’d been trying to paint eyes? Or brown peacock feathers? He shook his head and immediately regretted it.

Aliens transported me to a science lab and investigated the paint while I was being experimented on. Or the condo was the science lab.

“And what the hell was man’s best friend doing to protect me while all this was going on?” he mumbled aloud.

T.J. unearthed a piece of paper about six inches by sixteen and stopped short. A pair of amber eyes layered with copper and bronze shone from beneath long, lush sable lashes.

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