The Last Guy On Earth (Hockey Guys: a series of MM stand-alone novels Book 3) by Sarina Bowen

Author:Sarina Bowen [Bowen, Sarina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tuxbury Publishing LLC
Published: 2025-02-18T00:00:00+00:00

“Here you go, Coach.” Gabby from the travel team hands me a key folio. “Room 1810, a junior suite. Gold level! Looks like the Fairmont upgraded you.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the key.

The Fairmont is a grand old place. One of the benefits of growing old in hockey is cashing in on travel perks; I’ve stayed in this hotel at least once a year for my entire career. They know me by now. In addition to the beautiful room on a high floor, I’ll probably find some gourmet snacks waiting for me.

As I take the elevator up to the suite, I’m thinking I’d trade away all the perks for a different outcome from tonight’s game.

I exit onto my floor with my carryon bag, sleepily studying the placards to determine how far I am from my room. I pass the Gold Lounge, which I’m way too tired to enjoy tonight and roll to a stop in front of 1810. There’s a chime for the elevator alcove, and I glance over my shoulder to see Hale stepping from a car.

His tired eyes narrow as he trudges to a stop in front of the door to 1808. “Are you lurking here in the hallway to give me pointers? I already know how badly I played tonight.”

“Just trying to get into my room.” I swipe the card in front of the key reader.

His frown lines deepen as the door unlatches. He pulls out an identical card and swipes into 1808. “Good night,” he says grumpily. He follows this with a mumbled, “If only.”

My room is as big and beautiful as I expected. There’s a fireplace on one wall and thick carpets underfoot. There’s a silver plate with three French macarons waiting beside a bottle of sparkling water.

There’s only one thing wrong—the adjoining door to Jethro’s room. It’s already hard to get any emotional distance from him, but now he’s on the other side of the damn wall.

Yay. What a shitty coincidence.

But it makes sense, when you think about it. We’ve been in pro hockey for the same number of years, and his loyalty program balances must look just like mine. We’re both Gold Level dinosaurs with our 1000 thread count sheets and our macarons.

I don’t even like macarons.

I’m so tired.

Ten minutes later I’m ready for bed and lifting the covers when I hear a knock on the adjoining door. My hand freezes on the quilt.

The knock comes again. “Clay,” says a muffled voice. “You up?”

Fuck. I cross the room, unbolt the door, and yank it open. “It’s late, Jethro. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

He stares back at me in flannel shorts and another threadbare T-shirt that shows off his muscular chest. “Do you want me to quit?”

“What? I want you to go to sleep.”

He shakes his head, as if I haven’t heard him. “Gun to your head—do you wish I’d just retire? It’s bad enough being the guy that Detroit threw away. I don’t want to be the guy who fucked up Colorado’s shot at the Cup.

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