4. Tate
It’s game day, and I’m on the bench.
If I wasn’t already drafted to the NHL, I’d probably be worried. I mean, sure, they left me here at NCAA level for development, and I can’t really develop if I’m not playing on the ice, but that’s beside the point. Kinda, sorta.
I can’t get into the AHL or NHL if I’m stuck here circling the development drain on the fucking bench.
I’ve been drafted to the pro league since my freshman year, I’m moving up as soon as I graduate, but considering how fucking hard I worked to earn my slot, I don’t want anyone to think I’m slacking. And I sure as shit don’t want the opportunity taken away from me either.
I’m a Myers. The Iowa equivalent to NHL royalty. And slacking is something we don’t do, taking our foot off the gas is something we don’t do. We succeed. We thrive. And we play pro-hockey.
Regardless of all that, I’m a healthy scratch for tonight’s game. Coach didn’t tell me why. Realistically, it could be due to any number of reasons, such as team strategy, lineup adjustments, or the need for a different style of play against a particular opponent. I can’t work it out.
And that’s bugging me too.
Meanwhile, my buddy, Raffi Shaw, has me out in the crowd, in my fly-as-fuck Ralph Lauren suit, doing his bidding.
If there wasn’t a woman involved I’d tell him to go fuck himself. But underneath my many layers of nonchalance, I’m a closet romantic at heart. If he wants me to deliver his hockey shirt to a woman in the crowd, I’m here for it.
Except.
Shit.
I check the message where he told me where she was sitting, look at the backs of the heads in that row, doing a double take when I get to the light-brown haired woman sitting a head and shoulders above Raffi’s girl. I can’t say for certain, but I’d put money on that being the same girl who ghosted me after the Halloween party last year.
I’d know those curves anywhere. It’s also hard to forget a gorgeous woman who’s almost as tall as I am.
I remember her vividly. One minute I was playing back up for her while she sang, and getting us both drinks, and the next, she vanished, ignoring all my texts and calls, never to be heard from again.
For a while, I thought perhaps I dreamed her up. That someone spiked my drink, and she was a figment of my imagination.
Not only is she very fucking real. But Ms. Pitstop seems to be wearing entirely the wrong colors to be watching a hockey game in our barn.
What the fuck is she doing?
Doesn’t she know how to hockey?
I mean, sure, it’s early days in our season, and we haven’t exactly proven ourselves as a team yet. But it’s only polite to wear the home team’s colors when you’re in the home team’s college, right?
Fuck it. If I don’t drop off this shirt Raffi will sever my dick from my body. I take a cleansing breath, in through my nose, expelling it slowly through my mouth, settle the choppy emotions stirring inside my chest, and make my way to their row.
Yeah. I’d know that profile anywhere.
Sure, last time I saw her she had a giant taco strapped to her head, but it’s definitely her. She’s not a woman a guy can easily forget.
Tori, Raffi’s girl, narrows her eyes when she sees me scooching down the row of seats toward her. Momentarily ignoring Penelope’s searing gaze on my skin, I turn all of my attention to Tori, squatting next to her. “My buddy tells me you’re wearing the wrong name on your shoulders.”
Her face says, “Oh, does he indeed?” but she remains quiet. Instead of her eyes narrowing even more, she rolls them. It takes a long moment for her eyeballs to right themselves.
I dunno who this chick is, but Raffi definitely picked a live one. His girl’s sassy as hell, and she looks like she’s about to kick my ass, then go hunt him down and kick his too, for good measure.
I snort. “Told me you’d eye roll when I said it too.”
I drop the bag on her lap. “How about you give the jersey with my name on it”—I jerk my chin at the shirt she’s already wearing—“to your friend here.”
I dare to throw a wink to Penelope. “She needs to replace that dish rag she’s wearing with a good team.”
I don’t need to wonder if she recognizes me, the steam coming from her ears and nostrils says she does. Why is she so mad? Is she really a Flint Flame’s fan? For real? How the fuck could she go to UCR and actively cheer for a team that isn’t ours? The fuck?
Her face is bright red, her nostrils flaring, and her eyes are hard. Where is the spunky Taco Belle from Halloween last year?
I’m not letting her off the hook that easily. Fuck that. If she’s going to be mad at me for what? Trying to talk to her after she mysteriously disappeared the night I had the best fucking kiss of my life?
Sure, she should totally be the one to be mad at that.
If she’s going to be a dick about it, I’m going to kill her with kindness. Flashing my sexiest, most dazzling smile, I stick my hand out. “Tate.”
She barely misses a beat, but there’s a definite hesitation before she accepts my outstretched hand and shakes it. “Penelope.”
Yeah, I know.
And I know that you know that I know.
I arch a brow at her. And suddenly this whole thing is less about my delivery of Raffi’s fucking shirt, and more about a staring stand-off with the woman I dreamed about for months after I met her.
And that fucking yellow dress. Thinking about it still makes my mouth water.
“Not my shirt to hand over I’m afraid, lover boy.” Tori pulls me out of memory lane with her declaration.
I shrug. I’ve stopped caring about the shirt. And the more Penelope stares at me like she wants to sever my carotid, the angrier I get. “Did my part. Got the shirt to you. What you do with it is up to you.”
Tori flashes a savage grin. “Tell your buddy it’ll make great kindling for the fire pit in my backyard after the game.”
Ouch. That’s harsh. “That’s cold. Ice cold.”
“I’m a complex woman.”
Seems they both are.
Penelope is incredibly interested with the nothing currently going on behind me on the ice, though she’s glaring at it now, instead of me. She’s staring so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole ice pad melts, and my guys can’t play.
“I’ll say.” With one last, lingering gaze at Penelope who is now actively avoiding meeting my eyes, I stand upright and leave.
What the fuck just happened?
I make my way to an empty seat at the top of the section behind her and pull out my phone.
Tate: You really going to pretend like you don’t know me?
I stare at the message for a full three minutes of a four minute penalty kill before I press send. No matter how hard I stare at the back of her head, it doesn’t make her react. Worse than that, it takes her a long while to even slide the phone out of her pocket and read the message.
Yup. Still her number.
I know I can’t assume that, especially since it took so long from the time I sent it to the time she read it, but I’m choosing to believe it is her number, and she is ignoring me, and she really did want laser beams to shoot from her eyes and slice me in half.
Fuck.
Instead of watching the game like Penelope is and studying the opposing players like I always do, analyzing my friends in real-time instead of a playback recording, I’m distracted.
No. I’m not distracted, I’m fucking obsessed.
Those kisses we shared were mind blowing. All-consuming. The way her body sagged against mine, the way small tremors rolled through her, the soft, small moans that fell from her lips when my dick got hard against her body as we kissed.
Fuck. Fuck. And fuck again.
My cock’s as hard as a steel bar in my dress pants, pressing against the seam of my pants leg, aching for release.
The number of times I fantasized about Penelope after that party was probably criminal. My dick wedged between her huge tits, her sucking my cock in that perfect, feisty, musical mouth of hers, fucking her until neither of us could do anything but suck in heavy gasps of air.
I look to my left, wondering where that grumbling noise is coming from, but it turns out, it’s fucking me.
My mind is everywhere but on this goddamn game. Okay, not everywhere, or even anywhere, it’s on one very specific person who seems to be staring at her phone screen, but I can’t tell for sure since she’s got her back to me.
The rest of the game passes by in a blur. It might not, it might pass by at a snail’s pace, I wouldn’t know, because I’ve been thrown back to that Halloween party a year ago. I dressed up in that annoying as shit ghost costume, and she had a huge fucking taco on her head.
I remember damn near every detail about that night, down to the haunting sound of her voice as she serenaded the room with her version of Landslide by Stevie Nicks.
She had no fucking clue how captivated everyone in the next room was. Conversations stopped, someone turned off the background music, and people ambled in from other rooms to listen to her sing. Did she even notice? No. She just let the music take her over as she belted out the most gorgeous melody.
She was clueless, standing there, eyes locked with mine as she gave me the most beautiful gift of letting me listen to her sing.
I haven’t played that song since I met her.
And here she is.
She didn’t transfer schools. She’s been right here this whole time.
She just... didn’t reply? Didn’t want me?
I squirm in my seat, discomfort pricking my skin like needles.
I don’t like that. The sting of rejection beds in deep.
I’m a confident guy. I’m good looking, smart as hell, and I’ve busted my ass to become really fucking good at doing the thing I love, playing hockey, just like Dad. Some people even say I could be better than him, and by the time my career is over, everyone will say the same thing.
But this... The fact that we shared a kiss, music, those tender moments, and she still walked away? And without explanation?
That bites.
Raking my hands through my hair results in a long sigh. She doesn’t owe me an explanation, not then, not now, but fuck, I sure would love one. What did I do wrong?
I take my time dragging my ass home, swinging by the local Dairy Queen to snag a mint brownie Blizzard. Not that I was in doubt, but that’s how I know for sure this girl has rocked my base. I never eat this shit during the season. And yet, tonight I was tempted to get two.
I head up to my dorm room. For the first part of my college life, I lived in the hockey house with the rest of the guys, but jeez, it’s loud as hell, messy as hell, and I couldn’t concentrate or get anything done.
As much as I love my teammates, and I do—I’d walk through fire for any of them—friendship won’t pay for my retirement. I need to excel, to push myself, to focus and do the work that needs to be done to win.
And to do that, I moved into dorms and never looked back.
Speaking of dorms, it would seem I’m getting a new neighbor. Because of course I am. The universe hates me.
Penelope stands at the door next to mine, she’s balancing a box on her hip while trying to get the door open. I’m guessing she feels my stare heavy on her body because she stops in her tracks and cautiously looks my way.
I cheers my Blizzard at her while she curses. Perhaps she thought she was cussing under her breath, but she said it loud. Knowing what little I know of her, I’d guess she doesn’t give a shit that she said it out loud.
“Of course he’s here.” She’s muttering to herself, the cardboard box sliding slowly down her body before she hitches it higher on her hip. “Stop staring at me.”
What the fuck? Who is this woman? And what happened to the one I met at the party?
Of course I’m here. I’ve been here for weeks. She’s the outsider here. And yet she’s the one giving me attitude. Not cool.
Despite her prickly exterior, and those daggers loaded in her eyes, I remind myself I’m actually a nice fucking guy, and gesture to the box in her hand. “Do you need a hand?”
“I’d rather jump into a pool of alligators with a gaping wound.”
Yeeesh. This woman most definitely wants to watch me suffer before I die. Maybe I can bring her back around now that we’re neighbors.
As though she reads my mind, she levels me with a hard stare over her shoulder. “Should be temporary. There was a flood in the dorm room upstairs from our room, and they’ve got to clean up and refurbish it before we can move back in. Maybe a few weeks.”
My heart falls. I open my mouth to say something, but I’m not sure what, so I simply snap my jaw shut and watch her open her door, step inside, and slam it closed with ferocious force behind her. Bet she was imagining the door smacking my face as it closed.
The first time we met she told me I’d fall in love with her. At the time, I thought she was crazy. Because who the hell falls in love with someone after just one kiss? Or even two? Or three?
Me.
That’s who.
Fine. That’s a little extreme, but I could have. I definitely fell in a whole lot of like.
And now she lives next door. Well, mark my fucking words, it’s her who’s going to fall in love with me this time.