3. Dutton #2
Oh, shit. No doubt these friends had fake tits and spray tans. “Of course you have an entourage to walk you around campus your first damn day,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Why would Liza care, though? She hates you.”
“Fuck you,” Blue volleys back good naturedly. “She doesn’t hate me. She just doesn’t like me all that much. And even if she does hate me, she’s the only person at this university who does. Can you say the same thing? Nope. So, I’m winning.”
“I’ll be sure to get you a trophy,” I deadpan. “What’d you do? Screw one of the tour guides on the counter while she was trying to make her breakfast?”
“No! I didn’t even touch them. They touched me, but I didn’t touch back. All I did was make them smoothies.”
“It’s true,” Ollie says, joining us as JT heads for the showers.
“But then the girls started fighting over who’d walk you to your first class.
Things got a little heated, and when your boy here tried to intervene,” he says, gesturing to Blue, “the girls got a little handsy and Mariah shoved Kenzi, which caused her smoothie to go airborne. It launched like a rocket, and it landed all over Blue’s shirt.
And the floor. And the cabinets. And I think I saw some drips on the oven door. ”
This story is making me glad I left so early, but I still don’t get how Liza’s involved.
“I was running late, so I didn’t have time to clean it up. I barely had time to run upstairs to get another one. In my haste,” he says, biting back a grimace,” I tossed the soaking wet shirt across the room. I was aiming for the sink, but instead…”
“He hit Liza in the face with his nasty, wet shirt,” Mickey finishes. “She’s got every right to be mad. You didn’t even clean up your mess.”
“You’re one to talk,” I fire back. “You left half a pizza in the oven. Overnight,” I remind him.
“Oh, shit. Is it?—”
“I threw it away. You’re welcome,” I snap, cutting him off before he can finish.
“Dude, you need to apologize to Liza,” Mickey insists, looking at Blue and still contributing like this conversation has anything to do with him. “Do whatever you have to because we can’t lose her. One of the conditions of us living there is that we have a house manager.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” I quip. I think every team on the east coast heard about the fire Mickey started that nearly burned the whole damn house down. I don’t know what caused it to collapse totally, but I’m sure he was part of the chaos.
He shoots me a glare, and I send one right back.
I’m not the least bit intimidated by this asshole.
I don’t respect guys who fail to take shit seriously.
And yeah, my best friend isn’t exactly the picture of responsibility, but he puts the work in when it counts.
Mickey lacks focus and direction. Spending ten minutes with him is like hanging out with a sixth grader on a sugar high.
It’s annoying as fuck. It’s not even that he’s a bad guy, just an immature, irritating one. And I’m not known for my patience.
“Just make it right. And clean up your mess,” Mickey says, giving Blue a pointed look as he hops off the lat press and heads to the next row of machines.
I should let it go, but this guy gets under my skin like no one else.
“Wipe down the fucking machine, Mouse,” I yell, deliberately calling him a name I know will piss him off.
It always did the trick when we played against him.
He nearly got ejected from a game last spring, all thanks to that one little word.
As expected, he shoots daggers in my direction, but I don’t even bother looking at him. I just hit the shower and move on with my day.
I need a goddamn drink, and while this coffee is good, it's not doing anything to erase the tension building at my temples. I’m not even much of a drinker.
It makes me feel sluggish, but the way my day is going, I’d down a shot of Jack right now just to ease the pressure this damn day keeps piling on.
Between Mickey irritating the shit out of me at the gym this morning and the meeting I just had with my academic advisor, I’m in a foul fucking mood.
The business program at Woodcock was easy as shit.
I coasted through classes, which is the whole damn reason I chose it as my major.
I don’t ever intend to work in the business sector.
If I did, there’d be a spot waiting for me at one of my family’s car dealerships, but management has never been my career path.
If I were joining the family business, I’d have probably chosen to be a mechanic, like my dad.
I spent a lot of time tinkering around in the garage with him while I was growing up, and even though those are some of my best memories, I’ve always known there’s only one future waiting for me.
Playing pro hockey isn’t the goal. It’s the plan.
There’s simply no alternative. It’s what I love.
It’s what I do. After being drafted after my freshman year, I decided to stay in college because it gives me a chance to work on my game and put up impressive numbers.
And since Minnesota’s center is still a few years away from retirement.
While I’m strengthening my game, I’m also attending classes and earning a degree.
It’s one I’ll never need, but I can’t play college hockey without going to college.
So, like in every other area of my life, I put in the work to get the results I want.
But that tried-and-true method might not cut it anymore, if today is anything to go by.
These business classes are no joke. Dr. Collins, my adviser, just gave me a list of requirements as long as my damn arm.
In addition to the five classes I’m taking, there’s also a seminar I need to attend twice a semester.
And the first one is next week. And yes, I probably got a thousand notifications about it, but between my dad’s accident and transferring to a new school, these last few weeks have been hectic.
I’ve got a few hours before my final class of the day, so I’m heading back to make some lunch, figure my shit out, and make a schedule.
The house is quiet, which makes sense. Most of the guys are probably sitting in class or eating at the dining hall, and Liza’s probably at the Wolf’s Den. There’s still a month or so until our first game, but there’s a lot to do to get ready for the season, and she keeps us all in check.
Dropping my bag at the door, I head into the kitchen to grab my last protein bowl. Blue likes to tease me about my meal-prepping, but on a day like today, when I’m starving and grouchy, I’m damn glad I share a pastime with middle-aged suburban moms.
My curry chicken and sweet potato bowl is the treat I fucking deserve.
Especially when I see Mickey in the kitchen.
Dammit. Of course he’s home.
If I’m going to deal with his hyperactive ass, I need all the chill I can muster, and everyone knows that roasted sweet potatoes and baked chicken are famous for their calming properties.
This fucking guy never stops, stands still.
I swear to god, it’s like he’s got springs in his sneakers or some shit.
He’s got headphones on and he’s likely jamming out to shitty music, so maybe I’ll be lucky enough to grab my lunch, warm it in the microwave, and step out onto the patio before he decides to talk my ear off.
His music mustn’t be too loud, though, because he looks up as soon as I enter the room.
He glares at me, and I glare right back.
There’s no hiding the fact that he hates me just as much as I hate him, but we don’t have to play nice right now.
It doesn’t sound like anyone else is home.
I can feel his eyes on me as I scan the fridge for my glass container, so I flip him the bird over my shoulder, just to piss him off.
“Real fucking mature,” he mutters.
I should let that go because he sounds like a goddamn middle-schooler, but where this guy is concerned, I can’t let anything go. He’s so damn annoying that I can’t resist any opportunity to return the favor and irritate him. But when I turn around to face him, I see red. Or rather, orange.
“That’s my fucking lunch,” I bellow.
“It was in the fridge,” he says, shrugging and scooping up another bite.
“You're damn right it was in the fridge, because that’s where people keep food, you dumbass.”
“It’s fair game if it’s in the fridge. Besides, there wasn’t a label on it.”
This motherfucker is testing my patience.
And if sweet potato theft isn’t a felony in your book, then we have very different moral codes.
Slapping my palm on the plastic lid that’s sitting on the counter, I seethe, “Yes, there was. See?” I run my finger along the masking tape label with my name on it.
“Sorry. My bad,” he replies, taking another bite. He doesn’t even have the decency to stop shoveling food in his mouth. “I’ve got a box of blueberry waffles in the freezer. You can take those as a tradeoff if you want.”
“What I want is my lunch.”
Lifting the bowl in my direction, he frowns. “But I’m almost done.”
“Oh, no. You’re completely done,” I correct, swiping the bowl from his outstretched hand. And, okay, maybe I’m a little heavy-handed. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a slight shoving motion that accompanies my retrieval.
“Getting your fucking hands off me,” he says, standing tall and puffing out his chest. He’s not nearly as scrawny as he was last year, I’ll give him that. Maybe this isn’t his first sweet potato heist.
“You had your fucking hands on my lunch, so I’d say we’re even,” I shoot back, grabbing a fresh fork and savoring the few bites that are left..
“It’s just food, asshole. And I said I was sorry.”
“Are you still yapping?” I ask, leaning against the counter and popping a morsel of chicken into my mouth.
“Fuck you,” he shoots back, shoulder checking me as he heads for the stairs.
Oh, the fuck no. I stick my foot out just far enough that it catches the toe of his slide.
He regains his balance and whips around to confront me, but I’m on the other side of the center island now.
He reaches across the counter to tip the bowl out of my hand, and he nearly does it.
The guy’s quick as fuck, but he’s sloppy, unfocused.
I duck, causing his hand to hit the porcelain fruit bowl.
Apples and bananas go flying as the sound of shattering ceramic rings out through the kitchen.
“You are such a dick,” he says, his face red.
“I’m an asshole. There’s a difference,” I correct him.
“You’re a selfish prick, is what you are,” he throws back.
“Says the shit-for-brains who can’t read a damn label and stole my lunch.”
It’s too damn easy to rile him up, and he launches himself at me. He doesn’t get very far, though, because Jablonski’s here to play peacemaker.
“Take it easy, Mickey,” he soothes. It pisses me off how everybody treats this guy like a kid on the verge of a temper tantrum. Although, to be fair, that’s kind of what he is.
“Yeah, listen to your buddy,” I taunt. “Take it easy. Better yet, calm the fuck down and focus, for Christ’s sake.
If you weren’t bouncing off the walls and acting like a damn child, who knows, you might actually play a decent game of hockey.
” I’m being an ass, and I know it, but there’s truth in what I’m saying.
Mickey’s got more talent than a lot of the guys I’ve played with, but he can’t harness it for shit, and that’s gonna be his downfall.
He squares up with me, and I swear there’s steam coming out of his ears.
The only reason this hasn’t ended in a fistfight is because Ollie’s holding him back.
But Ollie won’t be here forever, and even though I’m walking away now, I have no clue how I’m going to live in the same house and play on the same team as Mickey for the next two years.