3. Dutton
Dutton
T ransferring to a new university at the beginning of junior year would probably be nerve-wracking for most people, but Blue and I are handling it just fine despite the fact that we have opposite personalities.
My bestie is a social butterfly, but I’m a loner by nature and don’t require a whole damn roster of friends.
Matter of fact, there are about five people I like, and they all tolerate me in return.
That’s more than good enough for me. I don’t require a lot of human interaction.
And I also don’t seek out pussy like it’s an alternative to oxygen.
I’m no saint, but I’m also not here to fuck my way through campus.
I’ve had a few relationships over the years, all monogamous, all long-term.
After a few months, though, when girls realize they’re not going to change me from a surly bastard into Prince Charming, they bail.
Their loss.
I may not be Mr. Personality, but when I do something, I give it all I have. Doesn’t matter if it’s playing hockey or pleasing my partner. Life’s a game, and I’m going to win every damn round.
Pulling open the door to the Wolf’s Den, I stride inside for morning workouts.
They’re pretty much an open gym, considering that we all have classes at different times, but that doesn’t bother me.
The fact is, I’m here at the ass-crack of dawn because I’m more likely to have the place to myself and this unholy hour.
I’ll make my way around the circuit of exercises, shower off, and head to my first class.
After stowing my shit in my locker, I’m annoyed to discover that some other asshole prefers to work out at fucking daybreak, but when I see that it’s JT, the tension in my shoulders relaxes a little.
I give him a nod when I hop on the treadmill next to him to warm up.
I don’t know him well, but I respect the hell out of him.
The man can defend the net, and that’s all that matters to me.
Patting my pocket for my AirPods, I curse silently when I realize I probably left them on my nightstand.
Dammit. They are the single greatest invention in the world, not only for the music they provide, but for the fact that when I’m wearing them, people don’t talk to me.
Holding out the futile hope that no one else will join us, I lock in on the screen in front of me and start to jog.
It doesn’t take me long to feel my body loosening up as I get into the zone.
When I step off the treadmill and take a swig of water, I see JT waving me over out of the corner of my eye.
“Mind giving me a spot?” he asks, and of course, I can’t say no. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a dick.
It takes me a second to wipe off the machine I was using, but when I make my way over to the bench JT’s on, he’s grinning as he adjusts the weight on the bar. “Nobody else is ever here this early. I’ve usually got to wait until seven to do any heavy lifting.”
I nod because I don’t have anything to say to that. Small talk is pointless to me. The man stated a fact, so I’m not going to argue with him, but I’m also not going to start chatting. Taking my position, I give a grunt that’s the universal weight room signal for, I’m ready when you are .
Instead of lifting the bar, he tilts his chin at me. “You good, man?” he asks.
Fuck me running, are we really doing this?
I live by the firmly held belief that no one should have to talk until the sun comes up.
Open hostility isn’t an option because I’ve got no beef with this guy.
And while silence is my social go-to, he’s already called bullshit on that.
If I stay quiet, he’ll just ask more questions.
Thinking back on all those etiquette classes my mom signed me up for back in middle school, I summon the dormant manners that have been embedded in me since early childhood.
And yes, I’m aware that I’m being dramatic.
It’s not fucking hard to make casual conversation.
People like to talk about themselves, so all I need to do is steer the conversation toward things that interest JT.
Pasting a smile on my face, I open my mouth and think of the first thing that JT might be interested in. “How’s your kid?”
As JT blinks, I realize that it is actually pretty fucking hard to make casual conversation, at least for me.
Clearing my throat, I make another attempt. “You’ve got a baby, right? Is it doing okay? Like, doing baby things?”
JT breaks into an easy smile. “Calla’s perfect.
She’s four months old, and if you’re not careful, I’ll show you pictures.
Fuck it, I’m showing you pictures anyway,” he says, sliding his phone out of his pocket.
A few taps later, an image appears on the screen.
It’s a well-known fact that babies look like aliens, so I’m surprised at how cute this kid actually is with her big eyes and wispy blond hair.
She’s propped up on a bare shoulder that obviously belongs to JT’s girlfriend.
With her rosy cheeks and o-shaped mouth, she looks like she could be in a commercial for baby lotion or baby food or whatever stuff babies need.
“She’s cute,” I say, unable to hide the shock from my tone. “But very slobbery.”
“No fucking kidding. I snapped this as I was headed out the door. Calla’s teething already, and no one at my house slept for more than an hour last night. As soon as I’m done here, I’m gonna head back so Maggie can get a few hours in before I have to get to class.”
I nod, but I’m grateful when he settles himself on the bench and reaches for the bar.
When the set is over, he wipes the equipment down before coming to stand next to me, like we’re switching places.
Fuck me, I guess we’re workout buddies now.
Could be worse, though. At least it’s JT here and not Mickey.
The walls would probably start shaking because that guy never stops moving.
We work our way around the circuit, and I learn that Calla is an actual genius who can hold her own head up and reach for her feet.
I shit you not, he’s proud as fuck when he’s telling me this, and even I’ve got to admit that it must be pretty cool to watch your baby hit all those milestones.
Granted, I couldn’t name one of them, but JT knows them all, so I just listen and nod.
I’ve got twenty minutes left before I need to hit the showers, but just when I think I’ve found a level of social interaction that doesn’t piss me off, I catch a glimpse of a few more teammates through the glass-lined wall of the gym.
Blue’s leading the pack, so that’s the good news. Ollie’s behind him with one of the freshmen, and Mickey’s bringing up the rear.
Dammit.
Twenty minutes. I can do this. I can do anything for twenty minutes, even ignore the most annoying guy on the planet.
The guys file in and start warming up, and the clock is counting down.
I haven’t called anyone a dick-for-brains yet, and I’m mighty pleased with myself.
I might just deserve a little treat after this.
You know what, I fucking do. If I can keep my mouth shut for the next eight minutes, I’m stopping by Drip for a celebratory black coffee.
“So…I’ve been thinking,” Blue says, sidling up next to me.
“What the fuck did you do now?” I ask. And no, my conversation with Blue doesn’t count as talking. He’s my bestie. No rules apply.
“Nothing,” he says, putting his hands up and proving beyond a doubt that he did something stupid. “I might check with that realtor and see if any housing has opened up? You and I could get a condo.”
That was our original plan, but all the good housing was scooped up by the time we decided to transfer here.
It really would be ideal, but we’ve got the third floor pretty much to ourselves since no one claimed the extra room.
Sighing, I turn to my buddy and repeat my earlier question. “What the fuck did you do?”
Just as Blue opens his mouth to proclaim his innocence, Ollie joins the conversation. “He pissed Liza off.”
“That’s not new information,” I tell him, irritated that he’s chiming in.
Unsurprisingly, the glitter prank did not inspire joy and camaraderie.
Instead of hitting our new teammates in the face, it got dumped on Liza, our house manager.
And no, Blue didn’t apologize immediately or profusely.
He laughed his ass off. And then assumed she was the cleaning crew.
So, he’s definitely on her shitlist, and that’s especially bad because not only does she live with us, she’s an equipment manager for the team.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she orders his compression shorts a size too small or misspells his name on the back of his jersey.
I can just see it now. Instead of Halliday, it would read Asshole-iday.
“You fucked up, bro,” Mickey says, aiming his words at Blue, as I stave off the urge to roll my eyes.
“I know,” Blue says, rubbing his face.
“You sent her flowers, right?” I ask. “She’ll forgive you eventually. Just don’t piss her off anymore.”
“Too late for that,” Mickey says, bounding over to our row of leg presses.
There are dozens and dozens of machines in here, so why the hell he feels compelled to use the one next to Blue, I’ll never know.
And the guy just keeps yapping. “He really pissed her off this morning. I’ve known Liza for two years, and I’ve never seen her face that shade of red.
She was livid. I thought she’d get over the glitter thing, but after this, I think you’re on her permanent shit list. ”
“Do you ever shut up?” I ask him. It’s a rhetorical question, so when he starts to answer, I ignore him and turn back to Blue. “Is it worse than the glitter?”
“I guess so,” he shrugs. “I don’t even know what she was mad about. It’s not my fault a couple friends stopped by this morning offering to show me around campus and walk me to my classes.”