9. Tate
She’s going to fucking kill me.
Even though Penelope and her cousin left the bar before I did, I still got back to my room and was in bed before she got home. They must have taken the long way home, or stopped somewhere for dessert, or pizza. My stomach growls. I should have stopped for pizza. Or asked her to bring me back a slice, she might have done before she’d seen what I did to her dorm room, but now she might lace it with poison.
I was halfway back to my dorm room when I remembered the mess of silly string draped around her room.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for her to get back and realize I’d covered her room in sticky stringy decorations. Her scream of frustration should have made me laugh, or even made my blood run cold with fear, but all it did was get me even harder.
Having an unregistered copy of my neighbor’s dorm room key came in handy. I knew it would when I got it—even before Penelope moved in. But this... this is just perfect.
I can’t wait to see what she does to get back at me. She won’t let things lie, she can’t, she’ll need to respond. This stupid prank war started as a pain in the ass but it’s becoming something more, something I look forward to, something fun.
It’s a shame we’re at war for some unknown reason. If only she could get over herself and give in to the gravitational pull of our chemistry, I could kiss her all the time. I liked kissing her. I think she not only liked me kissing her but it felt like she might have liked kissing me too.
Tonight, however, I can’t let my thoughts linger on kissing her. She’s taken up enough space in my brain today, and it’s hockey night here at UCR. Her fucking brother Oliver Lindstrom, a senior and one of the best defensive hockey players in the NCAA division II, is in our barn.
I learned a lot from the de la Pe?a twins about Oliver and Penelope Lindstrom, children of Mike Lindstrom, former NHLer who crashed out of a professional career with a severe injury. Played at the same time Dad did. I made a mental note to give him a call and get the skinny on her dad. Maybe I can find an ‘in’ with her that way, find some common ground.
Further digging and asking around via chatting with some girls from Pitstop’s classes while they gushed over Bacon, our adorable team mascot, got me the information about her ex, Richard. Dick. And her best friend, Chloe. Cheating, traitorous fucks. Long-term cheating, too. And it seems damn near everyone knew but Penelope. Ouch.
Focus, Tate. No more Penelope-on-the-brain on game day, remember?
Right.
I can’t afford to take Penelope and our baggage onto the ice tonight. I can’t afford to get my ass benched. And mistakes happen on the ice in a fraction of a second. If I don’t pay attention, someone could end up hurt, probably me.
It’s the first period of the game, we’re halfway in on the ice, the clock ticks down from ten minutes, and already my lungs are burning. Apollo picks one off at center ice but we aren’t able to turn it over, and for his troubles he gets knocked down by Thompson of the Wolves.
Fitzmorris for the Raccoons looks for McGuffin, McGuffin catches up to it but one of the Wolves bounces a quick one back toward the line. From the momentum on the ice, it’s clear the Wolves are going to start up. On the far side of the ice, the puck is fired off the stick of Artemis, it hits the glass and goes into the crowd giving us another stoppage of the game. Breaking their momentum, and ours, too.
The pace of the game so far, as suspected, has a lot of energy. We’re really fucking great on the back-check.
Fitzmorris snaps it toward the net but it’s out of the reach of the goalie. Another miss. We can’t buy a fucking goal right now no matter what we do.
Fitz doesn’t back down though, he takes my pass and sends it back toward the net.
Holy fucking fuck! McGuffin comes out of nowhere and slams one of the Wolves into the boards, he goes down, hard. That was a huge hit from McGuffin. Talk about catching a man with his head down. The dazed and confused Wisconsin Wolves player did not expect that, but McGuffin... sheesh.
That’s a solid body.
He’s not known for physical play, but that’s one of the best hits I’ve seen him throw. We’ll take more of that please and thank you—just directed squarely at the Wolves.
The game continues, and the puck is played toward the middle, it’s sent to Apollo behind our own net. He plays it through all the way to Fitz, who tries to put it in the basket at the far end of the ice, but he misses.
Instead it ricochets off the boards and into the corner where Penelope’s brother, Oliver, and I battle for the puck. The damn thing is stuck, so I’m chipping at it with my blades—skate and stick—trying to get it to come loose and something connects with my stick. That something was Oliver Lindstrom’s fucking face. Shit.
When Oliver grunts and the whistle blows, I know I’m in trouble. I turn around slowly. Oliver has his glove off, tucked under his arm, and his palm is covering his bloody face.
Shit.
Not good.
Blood seeps through his fingers.
Double shit.
Pretty sure Pitstop’s in the rink tonight, too. The general level of Tate-loathing in the arena hitches up a good hundred points when she’s sitting in the stands. And I doubt she’d miss watching her brother play on our ice. She’s probably wearing a Wisconsin Wolves shirt for good measure, too.
With fire in his eyes, and his mouth curled into a snarl, Oliver lunges at me, swinging his fist at my face, but a lineswoman interjects, pulling him back. The referee sends me to the box for butt-ending—hitting someone in the face with the top of your stick. Thankfully, I only got a double minor, four minutes in the box, instead of a major, or a misconduct that I could have easily been handed.
I toss my stick and gloves against the penalty bench in frustration, followed by my helmet before I plop down to sit for four minutes. My blood is boiling, my body hot. It was a fucking accident.
Feeling someone’s gaze warming my already hot face, I fight the urge to look toward where I sense she’s glaring at me from. It has to be her. The level of hatred went from one hundred to one million on the scale.
I don’t need to make eye contact with her to know that she’s skinning me with a very sharp knife in her brain.
After four painful minutes, the left side of my face burns from the seething glare Penelope is no doubt sending my way. I don’t have time to let her nestle any deeper into my mind right now. Instead, I explode onto the ice in a frenzy of movement, ready to get back into the game and make shit happen.
We need to pull a win out of this game, and I need to be a part of that considering I was in time out for a double minor.
Finley crosses the line, passes it to Artemis who passes it back to Finley. They’re two intimidating fuckers guarding that blue line in front of Ares. The puck is picked from Finley and the attacker slips between our defensive line, right in front of Ares. He makes two big saves, a third, the puck is still loose. Ares is on the ice, legs spread in the splits as he frantically tries to keep the puck from the net.
He pulls out maybe six saves in a row before Artemis gets his stick to it and passes it forward. We’ve been close a couple times, but close only matters in games like horseshoes. We need a damn goal.
I pick up the loose puck and when I cross the line into the Wolves’ zone, I’m still onside. Apollo is a few feet ahead, slapping his stick on the ice with a frantic aggression, calling for the puck.
Double checking he is where I think he is, I sail the puck to my Captain, he shoots and tips it right into the back of the net between the goalie’s legs. A fucking five-hole. The netminder is going to want that one back. It was a shaky goal at best.
But, a goal is a goal. I’ll take it any way it comes.
We win in overtime, by the skin of our teeth. It wasn’t pretty, but we claimed the ‘W’ and by the time I drag my ass to the dorms, I’m dead on my feet. My legs are as heavy as lead, my body is tense, and even my brain hurts.
When a throat clears, I can’t help groaning. Without looking up, I know she’s standing outside my room, waiting for me like a fucking creeper.
“You piece of shit.” It takes her half a second to close the distance, her index finger jabbing into my pec as she punctuates what will undoubtedly be a tirade.
Ignoring her, I jam my key in the door, turn it, and push it open. If she’s going to keep yammering on at me, I’m going to need to ensure I have an easy escape route.
“What the fuck was that?”
I hold up my hand. “Can you just, not? Please?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s been a night. I’m exhausted.”
“A night?” She scoffs. “It’s been a night, he says. I’ll fucking say it’s been a night, you almost took his nose off his fucking face.”
She’s got the same fire in her eyes that I saw in her brother’s on the ice earlier. But in Penelope, it’s hot as hell. I’m half-tempted to ask who she’s talking about, but she really would skewer me if I did.
Exhausted, and wrung out from the ball-busting Coach gave me after the game, I should let it go. I should drop it, walk through the open door to my room, and lock it behind me.
But from the way her nostrils flare, to the way her teeth are gritted and the muscles in her face flicker with rage, she’s a fire goddess standing in front of me, and I can’t help but douse her in gasoline.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Pitstop, would you shut up and give it a rest? It’s part of the game.” My nonchalance is what pushes her over the edge. I feel—more than see—the moment she snaps as the air around her shimmers with rage.
“That’s the thing with you Myers’s, isn’t it? No fucking regard for anyone else but yourself.” She advances on me, pulling her shoulders back, and sneering like some deliciously beautiful dragon.
I’m ready to burn in her fire.
“Who gives a shit if your actions impact someone else? Who cares if poor bystanders get hurt? Who cares if their careers are affected? Right? As long as it doesn’t come back on you, it’s fair game.” She’s pushing me backward with her finger. I’m undoubtedly going to have bruises from the aggression of her jabs.
We’re both standing in my room, she’s blocking the way out. Her words are spat out with such fiery hatred, such bitter loathing, I’m starting to wonder what this is all truly about. It feels like genuine disgust, real revulsion.
It feels personal.
Before I can ask, she picks up her scolding. “Well, listen here, bucko. That’s not how the real world works.” She’s yelling pretty good, right now. “For us mere mortals, there are consequences to our actions. And guess what? You’re not above anyone else, you’re not above the rules, no matter what you might think.” She sneers. “And you owe Oli a fucking apology.”
She’s staring me down like a viper ready to strike. Her body is taut, her face flushed, and her eyes wild. She’s never looked so gorgeous, and I’ve never been so fucking turned on in my whole life.
“Are you done?”
She’s right, I do owe Lindstrom an apology, and part of me feels like getting my phone out and giving it to him right here and now just to shut her up and see what she’d grouse about next.
She glares at me. “Maybe.”
I step toward her. It’s my turn now.
She holds her hand up. “Stop.”
I sigh, pulling my phone out of my dress pants. “What’s his number?”
“Who?”
“Don’t fucking ‘who?’ me, Pitstop. Oliver, your brother. What’s his fucking number?”
She shakes her head so I shoot off a text to the twins, surely one of them would know someone, who knows someone, who could locate his number in a hot minute.
We stand staring at each other, except it’s more like glaring.
“It won’t count. You’re just saying sorry because I told you to, not because you mean it.”
I wag my finger at her as contact information for Oliver Lindstrom appears on my screen. “No. You can’t keep moving the goal posts.” I press the number, the call button, and the speaker button.
It rings twice before someone picks up and grunts “Hello?”
“Oliver?”
“Yeah? Who’s this?”
Penelope parts her lips like she’s going to say something but I’m not letting her, so I clamp a hand over her wide-open mouth.
“It’s Tate. Tate Myers.”
Silence.
“I wanted to say sorry about earlier, man. On the ice. It was a careless accident, I should have controlled my stick better, and I’m sorry.”
More silence. Penelope’s mouth turns into a fucking smirk under my palm, and I roll my eyes.
Oliver clears his throat. “This is weird.”
He’s right, it is weird. Hockey players don’t typically run around calling people they hit during a hockey game, not unless it’s really fucking bad. But in this instance, I’m trying to date his sister, so I’ll jump through any hoops she might hold up for me.
“It is. I just... I dunno, I felt like I should apologize.”
Penelope purses her lips together behind my hand, and her shoulders shake with silent laughter.
I shake my head, rolling my eyes because this is painful as shit. “Anyway, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, and it was an accident.”
“O...kay. Apology accepted.”
“Cool.”
There’s another pregnant pause on the line.
“Dude. Are you trying to ask me out?”
Penelope cracks up under my hand, thankfully she doesn’t make much noise.
“No, I was just... forget it. I said sorry. I’ll see you around.” I hang up before he can answer again, and when I remove my hand from Pitstop’s face, she shakes her head at me.
“I can’t believe you did that, it was so cringe.”
“You told me to say sorry, so I said sorry.” I move in to kiss her, and her palm meets my face, again.
“No.”
“What the fuck do you mean no? Unless you’ve changed, you’re all about consent and respect and?—”
I kick the door closed behind her, making her jump. Her chest rises and falls faster and faster, and when her back hits the door, a small ‘meep’ escapes her.
She’s mine now.