7. Tate
That woman is a force of nature. And the more she pushes me away the more I want to win her over.
I’m not an asshole, no means no. But I don’t think she actually means no.
Again, she says it, so I won’t force my presence on her or anything, but something’s holding her back, something made her do a one-eighty on me after the party.
People don’t just announce they’re going to make you fall in love with them and then flee. I’ve seen how she looks at me, how she undresses me with her sassy stare, how her pulse flutters frantically at the base of her neck when we talk. Something made her change her mind.
Hopefully it’s something I can change right back.
I step into the rink, my kit bag hanging over my shoulder. It’s morning practice. Rico and Mikko are fucking around in the locker room. You can smell the rookie energy from a mile off. They’re young, naive, and it’s just a matter of time before their delusions of NHL grandeur are crushed into tiny little pieces.
I’m not saying Coach is an asshole, but he’s kind of a dick. He brings us in, breaks us down, figures out how we work, what makes us tick, our weaknesses, our strengths, and then presses every button we have.
Once he has all the data, he presses some more, gets us to almost breaking point. He loves studying us while we work under pressure, and then the magic happens.
It’s a grueling process, but his methods work. And he has a higher percent of his players getting scouted by the NHL than any other person in his position.
Just sucks at first.
Correction, it sucks for a while. Then it sucks more.
Thenit gets better.
Know what’s not getting better?
This dumpster fire with my neighbor. I thought perhaps letting her keep my dinner last week would make things a little more amicable between us.
It’s almost made things worse.
She’s noticeably and aggressively louder, slamming doors, playing loud music, and generally... well, I guess she’s just being me. I didn’t realize how loud I was being until she started returning the favor.
Not true. Turns out a few other people have brought it up to our RA. Seems I’ve been pretty obnoxious. But that’s not the point.
Getting my gear on in the locker room takes longer than usual. I can’t get Penelope Pitstop out of my mind. Why does she hate me so much? How did we go from kissing like we were made for each other to her wanting to claw my eyes out?
It wouldn’t bother me so much if it was dislike. Dislike I can accept, I can deal with. Not everyone is going to like everyone else. But this? The vehement, blood-curdling loathing that radiates from her in waves? I need to know where that comes from.
And why does she wear our opposition’s shirts to the games?
That’s weird and driving me more nuts than I care to admit.
Her ire eats at my skin like leeches in a murky lake draining my energy. And apparently, my higher brain function, because when I stumble over the puck on the ice, the rookies snort and snicker to each other.
I’m almost one hundred percent sure one of them called me grandpa.
I’ll fucking grandpa them.
I didn’t get drafted to the NHL by being a slow-assed fossil.
I get back to the scrimmage, my body present on the ice, but my mind? It’s consumed with thoughts of the pretty girl next door with bigger balls than most of the guys on this team.
I should have known better than to think she wouldn’t have followed through on her threat. When she swung that door open and was eating my pad Thai, I almost laughed. She has a steel spine.
It’s hard to concentrate on practice, but somehow, I pull my thoughts away from the blonde bombshell consuming my mind.
As good as Ares de la Pe?a is, I can almost always slip the biscuit in the basket around him at practice. At least once. Oftentimes more. But today? Today he’s a wall.
And he knows it.
“Goal’s this way, amigo,” he chirps at me. “Have you forgotten how to score?” He leans his elbows back on the crossbar gloating, like even without his stick on the ice he could stop me from scoring.
If only he knew.
I haven’t gotten laid in weeks. Not simply because Pitstop might overhear my bedroom endeavors, but also, I’ve lost the taste for getting laid.
That’s not true. I want to get laid. I want to get laid very much, but the woman who I want to go to bed with, might cut off my dick if I tried, so I’m kind of stuck.
My dick’s pretty raw from all the jacking off I’m doing, though it’s not providing any relief. And my dreams of my fingers tangling in her hair, my fingers sinking into her curves, and the memories of how her kiss tasted on my lips aren’t helping either.
Practice goes by in a blur. Again, not a common occurrence for me. I like to study the game during my time on the ice. I study myself, my teammates, Ares in the net, what makes him come out of his crease? What doesn’t he move for?
But today? I can’t remember shit. Nothing.
It’s not good.
When I’m pulling my skates off, the de la Pe?a twins invite me to lunch with them and Scott. For a moment, I consider the fact this could be an intervention due to how shitty I played during practice.
But there are guys on the team who have played far shittier than I did today, and for far longer. So I press down the panic welling in my chest, get changed, bag up my pads and head over to the Sacred Cow for wings.
As soon as we step inside the tavern, I catch a glimpse of Penelope. What are the fucking chances?
So when the guys move to a table toward the back of the restaurant, I encourage them—almost aggressively—to move closer to her.
They’re looking at me like I’m unhinged.
She catches my eye as we sit, but she doesn’t say anything, or acknowledge my existence. She’s sitting with a really attractive guy, and two other women. Is she dating him?
An uncomfortable feeling rolls through my body that I don’t want to give a name to, not now, or ever. I don’t do jealousy. I don’t do commitment. I’m committed to the game, to NHL, to my future. Not sassy, smart-mouthed women who want to shank me with a steak knife.
Ben—our favorite server and long-time hockey fan—comes over with a smile on his face. He rolls his sleeves up, grabs his notebook and pen, and stands like he’s ready to run a race. “Alright. Hit me. What’s it going to be?”
At least two of us don’t bother looking at the menu. We order buffalo chicken loaded fries, spinach and artichoke dip, Cajun elote wings, two pounds of chicken wings, and a sausage and pretzel board.
Scott adds a bowl of dill pickle soup to the list of food we’d like, and my stomach churns. My dude needs help. That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard, and while I’m fine with trying new things and even eating weird things, I will never come to terms with dill pickles. They’re just... wrong.
“Is that everything?” Ben purses his lips.
Apollo grunts. “For now.” He pats his stomach. “Gotta save room for the skillet cookie.”
Ben laughs. “I’ll keep checking with you to make sure you don’t need an extra pound of chicken or something.” He winks. “I know what y’all are like.”
Artemis smiles. “We can certainly put it away.”
Ben shakes his head. “You certainly can.”
I can’t help staring at Penelope as she actively avoids meeting my gaze. She’s doing it on purpose, I can tell because she’s looking everywhere but at me. It’s almost a game now.
“Who is she?” Scott’s voice is so close to my ear that I yelp when he speaks.
The twins laugh, Scott chuckles, and Penelope graces me with her gorgeous, menacing eyes for a brief moment—granted it’s to glare at me—but I’ll take what I can get right now.
Artemis whistles.
Apollo sits forward, steepling his fingers together.
Scott looks between Penelope and me, and then to the twins. “You saw that, right?”
The twins nod.
I’m regretting making them sit next to Pitstop. “Saw what?” The attempt to make my voice sound cool, calm, and collected fails miserably, and it comes out thin.
“Oh, no.” Apollo shakes his head. “You don’t get to dismiss this.”
“Not when you specifically asked us to move to this very table,” Artemis adds before picking up his water and draining half the glass.
“Wanna talk about it?” Scott pats my back. “She doesn’t seem to like you much.”
I grunt. “Understatement of the year.”
“You need some help with wooing her?” Apollo’s eyes light up. He’s a romantic at heart, and with his girl still in Australia doing some serious ballet dancer recovery shit with some big wig ballet school, his cupid tendencies have nowhere to go.
“I’m good.” I wave them off. Our food is delivered, and we all dig in. But when Penelope gets up from the table thirty minutes later, there’s a deep urge to follow her. I can’t stop myself. I put my arm out to block her escape. “Hey.”
She looks at my arm. Looks in my eyes. Looks at the guys at the table.
The guy who’s with her looks like he is thinking about—and probably could—sever my arm from my body if I don’t retract it soon.
She doesn’t say anything, simply responds to my ‘hey’ by arching a brow. Though she gives the dude she was with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Something about him is familiar. Have I seen him before? I feel like I know him. How do I know him?
I study his frame, the broad shoulders, the crooked nose. Is he a jock? Does he play hockey?
I can’t for the life of me place this guy but there’s a familiarity about the way he’s scowling at me.
She picks up my half-drunk chocolate shake and holds it wordlessly above my head.
She wouldn’t fucking dare.
“I’m just saying hi.” My brows tent. Would she?
“Let me pass.” The challenge in her voice must make my brain short circuit, because now I don’t want to. I want to push her, to see what she does. She had the balls to eat my dinner when it was just the two of us, but will she?—?
Cold, gloopy chocolate milkshake slops onto my head in a constant trickle from the glass.
“Son of a—” I retract my hand. My instinct is to cover my head but it’s already too late.
The guys are laughing, she’s got that savage glint in her eye, her full lips tugged up into a smirk. “Excuse me.” She places the glass on the table in front of me before catching a bit of the milkshake dripping from my chin on her finger and slipping it into her mouth. The sounds she makes spark life in my crotch.
This is not good. At all.
Pitstop follows the two women out the door, but the guy pauses. “Apollo, Artemis.” He throws them a salute.
“Oli.” Apollo nods.
Artemis shakes his hand. “Good to see you Oliver.”
My jaw drops. Fuck. I do know him. He plays hockey for a different college team. Didn’t he move to Michigan State? Nah, it wasn’t that far away... Where is he? Minneapolis?
When they leave, Scott hands me a stack of napkins. “What did you do to piss off Oliver Lindstrom’s sister?”
Is that why she hates me?
Because her brother plays against me on the ice? Did I hit him too hard one day, and she got mad about it? Surely not, it’s the nature of hockey, right? It’s all a bit of give-and-take. I’ve been on the receiving end of Lindstrom’s checks once or twice in the past, too.
It can’t be that.
“Who does he play for?” Maybe having all the information will help fire a synapse lurking in the back of my brain.
“Wisconsin.”
“The Wolves.”
The twins answer at the same time, but nothing new comes to mind. I shrug, dabbing the sticky goop on my head, but it’s clear I need something more industrious than these napkins. “I think she loves me.” I flash them a grin. “It’s her love language.”
Scott groans into his palms.
Artemis snorts.
And Apollo points an index finger at me. “Amigo, I don’t think that means what you think it means.”
It’s time to leave. I’m not staying to endure the Dominican inquisition. Those twins can be unrelenting when they want to be. So I make my excuses, rinse my hair in the bathroom so I don’t head home with chocolate sludge sliding down my face, and head back to the dorms.
When I get there, there’s a box of donuts sitting on the edge of my bed. My roommate looks up from his Xbox. “They were at the door when I got back.” He’s got donuts dancing in his eyes, so when I open the box, I let him take one. He places it next to him and goes back to his game.
There’s a notecard on the box, all it says is “Truce? – P”
You’re shitting me? My face lights up with a deep sense of satisfaction.
I knew she loved me.
I honestly have no idea why I’m still interested in this woman. She ghosted me after the party last year, and for the last month she’s been downright rude. I guess rudeness is my kink, because I can’t get her out of my damn mind.
I pull out one of the donuts, there’s no indication of what’s inside, but it”s a filled one as opposed to one with a hole in the middle. I lick off some of the powdered sugar and hum, the disappointment of not getting my skillet cookie abating with every fleck of sweetness melting on my tongue.
Biting into the donut is a spiritual moment. I can’t believe she treated me to half a dozen of the best donuts in town.
After a couple of chews, it’s clear something is horribly wrong.
Callum has taken a bite of his, and his face is making the same traumatized expression that mine probably is. What the fuck is wrong with this donut?
Taking a closer look, the filling that’s oozing out of it is a dark yellow, picking it up closer to my face, I take a whiff.
What is that smell?
A deep burning starts on my tongue, and I slowly put two and two together.
That wicked bitch next door filled the fucking donuts with mustard.