Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
GUNNER
I’m packing my gym bag with everything I’ll need for the game tonight when my phone chirps beneath the covers of my bed.
At first, I dismiss it.
Then I recall telling Rebel to text me if she needs a ride to the game. When I offered, I knew deep in my heart that Rebel would rather paddle upstream with a toothbrush than get in a car with me.
However, I rush to pick up my phone on the off chance that she’s taking me up on my offer.
A glance at the screen makes all the blood rush straight to my head.
It is Rebel.
I straighten my shirt and brush down my shaggy hair as if she’s in front of me. With a deep breath, I unlock my phone and navigate to my message app.
REBEL: I’m picking out my outfit for tonight’s game.
I stare at the message, taking it apart and looking underneath it to find a hidden meaning. Rebel doesn’t strike me as the type who’d ask a guy for his opinion on her clothes. Maybe it’s a test?
Determined not to fail, I type back.
ME: Whatever you choose will look good.
REBEL: You mean that?
ME: Yeah.
REBEL: What are you wearing tonight? I want to coordinate our colors.
I read and reread her message, but it makes no sense the first, second or third time. What does she mean by ‘coordinate our colors’? I’ll be wearing the team jersey… along with all the other Lucky Strikers.
Before I can figure out what to text back, Rebel sends me another message.
But this time, it’s a picture.
She’s standing in what appears to be her bedroom. Filmy pink curtains and tall white closet doors are in the background.
Her hair’s twisted into two long braids with some kind of cloth woven into the braid. She’s wearing a bathrobe that’s exposing one of her slim shoulders. Did she just get out of the shower? My torrid brain conjures images of Rebel, water and steam.
I force those thoughts away and focus, instead, on her rosy cheekbones and soft pink lips. She’s holding up a blouse and a jacket to her collar. At first, I dismiss the outfit. I meant it when I said she’ll look good in whatever she wears.
I start to type back: I like this one.
But before I press ‘send’, something stops me.
Bothered, I navigate back to the picture and expand the image across my screen so I can get a better look at that jacket. Like all Lucky Striker’s merch, the team’s logo is stitched in the front, while the player’s number is on the sleeve.
That number… it belongs to Theilan.
I swipe to Rebel’s face in the picture.
There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes and an edge to her smile. The evidence is written all over her face.
She’s trying to rattle me.
And it’s working.
A dark, heavy emotion claws through my chest. Like black sludge, it winds its way into my veins, taking hold of me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Theilan is my little brother on the team, but suddenly, I have a burning desire to burn his jacket to a crisp.
At that moment, another text comes in.
This time, Rebel is making a kissy face at a mirror. She’s holding up a dress and another jacket. It’s the exact same type of jacket as before, but it has the name ‘RENTHROW’ in giant letters all the way across the back.
I hate the thought of her wearing any of those jackets. Hate it with my every breath.
My eyebrows coil until they meet in the middle of my forehead and I grip the cell phone tight. Restless, I pace up and down my room.
Another text pops in.
I don’t bother opening the image. I don’t want to see any more.
Annoyance rolls through my mind, stinging me with countless tiny arrows. I have no reason to be this upset about her clothing choices. Rebel and I aren’t truly dating, and she can wear what she wants to the game.
Stay cool.
Breathe.
Just. Be. Normal.
But the problem is, I can’t control myself.
At all.
Running my teeth along my bottom lip, I ignore the objective side of me and lean into the irrational.
ME: None of those outfits do you justice.
REBEL: Not one of them? Are you sure?
ME: Dead sure.
REBEL: It’s probably because I didn’t try them on. Give me a sec.
Try them on? As in, she’ll wear the jacket with RENTHROW’s name splayed across the back like a calling card? She’ll let Theilan’s jacket touch her beautiful skin?
The mere thought makes me want to toss my phone into the lake.
ME: Don’t wear a jacket tonight.
REBEL: But I’ll be cold.
ME: Then wear mine.
REBEL: No thanks. Your jacket doesn’t suit my complexion.
I grit my teeth. It’s the same dang jacket as Renthrow and Theilan’s. What is she talking about?
REBEL: I think April has an extra Chance McLanely sweatshirt I can borrow.
Oh-ho. This woman is about to make me lose my mind.
Tired of the back and forth texting, I call Rebel directly.
She answers in a sultry voice, “Hey, Gunner. You still haven’t told me which outfit you prefer.”
“I’ll tell you in person,” I growl.
There’s a beat of silence. I can imagine her eyes widening and then narrowing as she tries to get in front of whatever I’m planning.
“Shouldn’t you be at the stadium early for warm-up?” Her voice cracks at the end of the statement, betraying her nerves.
“I’ll swing by on my way.”
“Y-you don’t need to?—”
“I can’t tell if those outfits look good or not from a picture. I need to see it in person.”
“Wait, Gunner…”
“I’ll see you in ten.” I hang up, zip my gym bag closed and gallop down the stairs.
Mom is in the kitchen, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. My instinct is to blow past her and jump right into my car, but I slow down instead.
“I’m heading to the stadium now,” I announce.
“Okay,” she says with an exaggerated sigh.
“Make sure you bundle up tonight.”
“Mm-hm.” She continues stirring the pot lethargically.
I tap my finger on the granite countertop, nod my goodbye and head outside.
Mom’s affronted stare lasers into my back as I open the front door. I can tell she wants me to stick around and sooth her ruffled feathers.
Any other day and I would, just to be respectful.
But a very frustrating blonde—the most frustrating blonde in the universe actually—is waiting for me. Probably not happily waiting, but so what? Rebel knew what she was doing when she sent me those pictures.
On the drive over to her place, Rebel calls my phone, but I don’t pick up. I’ll see her in a few moments anyway and she can say whatever she wants to my face.
The sun is beginning to set as I find a parking spot in front of the realtor’s office. Rebel’s place is one of the three units on the second floor.
I grab the jacket I brought from home and head up there.
My boots pound up the stairs and I’m barely winded by the time I stop in front of her apartment and knock.
The door swings open as if she’d been waiting for me. She’s changed out of the bathrobe and is now wearing a pink T-shirt, pink shorts and fuzzy pink slippers.
“I can’t believe you drove all the way here,” she snaps, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m going with a regular, non- hockey-themed jacket tonight. That’s what I was calling to tell you before you raced over for nothing.”
I take her hand and jerk her into the narrow hallway with me.
The door slams shut behind her.
Rebel jumps, startled. “What are you doing, Gunner? Do you want to fight?” She holds up two fists and I almost laugh. “Let’s fight. I’m not scared.”
“I have never and will never put my hands on a woman. Lower your arms, Rebel.”
A crease forms between her eyebrows. “Then why are you here?”
Rather than answer, I wrap my fingers around her wrist and tug it away from her side. Stepping so close her face is almost buried in my chest, I shrug my jacket sleeve halfway on to her elbow. Next, I slide on the other sleeve.
My hands tremble slightly while I dress her. Being this close to Rebel Hart, I can smell her perfume. It’s a light, citrus scent. Probably something held in a pink perfume bottle, knowing her. I bet the fruit this flavor is based on is pink as well. Something citrusy. Grapefruit, maybe?
I shrug the jacket over her shoulders and linger for a beat longer than necessary. Finally, I step back and survey her.
My team number is proudly displayed on her sleeve.
My last name is scrawled across her back.
KINSEY.
The heavy, dark emotions retreat completely, like wild wolves running back to their cave for the night. Perfect.
Rebel blinks slow and steady, as if waking from a daze. And then she bristles.
“I’m not wearing this,” she protests, yanking the jacket off.
“I can’t force you to. But if you don’t…” I shrug carelessly, “I’ll be distracted all night and I’ll probably miss all the shots I take and then, when they interview me after the game, I’ll blame you on live television and the town will turn against you. Do you want that?”
“Gunner Kinsey, are you threatening me?”
I wiggle my phone in her face. “You threatened me first.”
“You’re insane.”
I shrug again. It’s the second time someone’s accused me of being out of my mind today and I’m starting to think they might be right.
I am insane.
Especially when it involves Rebel Hart.
As Rebel chews on her bottom lip and struggles for a comeback, I tap her nose. “See you tonight, Hart.”
I make my way to the staircase and hear Rebel yell, “I hope you trip on your skates and fall flat tonight, Kinsey!”
It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.