Chapter 25 Jerseys And Jackasses
JERSEYS AND JACKASSES
KNOX
Staten and I are official. I…I never thought I’d be saying that. I’d give it the celebration it deserves, but my piece of shit father is somewhere in the stands. All my energy is focused on not looking like an incompetent fuck in front of him.
I don’t even know why I care so much. I should be playing for myself, for the team, for Staten.
But bad habits die hard, and I’ve got some spite on loan that needs to paint a bull’s-eye red.
I want to make my dad eat his words. I want to show him that I’m good enough to make a career out of this—that I’m more than worthy of a spot in my own fucking family.
I know I’m supposed to leave all my personal baggage at the entrance of the rink, but I fear that my need to prove myself is the only motivator I have today.
The game is supposed to start in ten minutes.
I shift my weight between my feet, pumping my arms back and forth to circulate warmth, a demolition team of nerves working overtime to destroy my (frankly impressive) composure.
I’m hyperfixated more than I should be, and the physical side effects dock a bit too late, materializing in a new strand of nausea and the unabating drumroll of my scorned heart.
“You okay?” Crew shouts at me over the noise, fluent in worry.
“‘M fine,” I grunt with all the elasticity of a liar, not bothering to tear my eyes away from the rink—not bothering to look over in his general direction on the slim chance that he pinpoints my deceit with sniper accuracy.
It feels like time moves slower here, and despite the commotion of the caffeinated hockey fans who are vibrating like little Energizer bunnies, my mind is completely silent.
Blank. Out of commission. I’ve never acted this way before a game.
I’m not going over plays, I’m not shuffling through our opponents’ strengths and weaknesses, I’m not even thinking about the only person who deserves a permanent spot in my brain—Staten.
The basin of my mouth is stale, my stomach is burning from a lack of food and an overproduction of acid, and every inch of my body is hot to the touch.
I only have one chance to impress my father.
If I bomb this, my grades won’t mean anything to him.
I’ve been working hard, you know? But most of the time, it’s never enough.
Thankfully, before I blow chunks everywhere, Staten appears in front of me with a smile that could stop traffic, repping a Mustangs jersey with her hair thrown up into two pigtails sectioned off by matching maroon bows.
She’s wearing her hair up.
“Hey,” she whispers.
“You’re here,” is all my fat mouth says, dumbfounded.
Her pupils—large underneath the harsh fluorescents—eclipse the skies of her brown irises, and admiration nestles into both the prolonged stares and flightier glances. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I know your da—”
“We don’t have to talk about him.” I cut her off abruptly, my tone a little colder than intended. I don’t want to desecrate my pregame rituals with the likes of him.
I take my helmet off so I can face Staten without a massive partition between us.
She simply nods, refraining from trying to read the map of emotions on my face. With her girlfriend duties superseding her part-time job as Knox detective, she slips one of my gloves off so she can intertwine our fingers—an honest mess of unprofessional hands.
“You’re going to do amazing today,” she assures me, and I’m so hyperaware of my surroundings that I can feel the way her pulse rebels just from the contact of our fingers alone.
Without thinking, I pull her into my padded chest, burying my nose into her hair to chase after that lavender kick-starter that’s surely going to bleed all the cynicism from my body.
And sure enough, once I get that familiar whiff, it’s lights out for my father and his unfair criticisms. I don’t know how Staten did it, but she’s got me rolling over and showing my underbelly like I’m a spoiled house dog.
When we break away—which is getting harder to do each time—it dawns on me that not only is she wearing a Mustangs jersey to show her school spirit, but she’s wearing my Mustangs jersey to show where her devotion lies.
Upon my revelation, she squeals and spins around, showing off the block number “6” that’s heat-pressed to her back.
Mine. She’s all mine, and this time, none of it is a part of our plan. None of it is self-planted just to make headlines. It’s real, and it’s the best thing in my life right now.
Hockey stick discarded (along with the rest of my equipment), I use my now-free hands to pull her in by the waist, feeling the polyester between my fingers.
It hides her stunning figure, but I have the authorization to slip underneath and run the length of her curves.
If my mind wasn’t all over the place before, it is now.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” I tell her, the timbre of my voice low, as if a purring fire of lust has tethered itself to the bottom of my throat.
Surely a little hands-on action doesn’t constitute a misdemeanor, right? Ugh, I’m such a loser. For her, specifically. Her ability to turn me on without so much as lifting a finger is as impressive as it is deadly.
She giggles. “You like it?”
“Ace, I’m lucky if you don’t distract me the entire game.”
There’s a pregnant pause, and some unspoken declaration hangs in the air like an accusation. She blinks a few times, her lashes beating against the swells of her eyelids. “I just wanted everyone to know I’m yours,” she mumbles, her voice reed thin as blood rushes to her cheeks.
My thoughts are shaking loose like snowflakes falling from powdered sugar awnings in the bulky passage of winter. “You do?”
“Of course, Knox. Just because your dad-adjacent douche canoe isn’t proud of you doesn’t mean the rest of the world isn’t. I know how hard you’ve worked this semester. You deserve someone who’ll always be in your corner, no matter what happens.”
Don’t cry, dude. Crying is not a good look before a game.
I rest my forehead against hers, and every vital action in my body seems to finally slow down for the time being—a full intake of air, a satisfactory resting heart rate, a reduction of sweat and epinephrine. “Thank you. For being here. For being my lucky charm.”
“Always,” she responds, rising to her tiptoes so I don’t have to bend down to apologize for my D-1 height.
I’m about to kiss her—silently patting myself on the back for popping a piece of gum in the locker room—but an enthusiastic uproar from my teammates has me red all over.
Staten hides her face. “Do you think we should tell your friends? You know, about us being official now?”
When I glance over at my teammates, they’re all contributing to the noise pollution with supportive hoots and hollers. Crew, in particular, exchanges a look with me that says something along the lines of, Hold onto her. She’s a keeper.
A grin splays over my lips as bottled and shaken butterflies wreak havoc in my belly. “I think they already know.”
STATEN
I never thought I’d attend another hockey game—much less while wearing the jersey of my new boyfriend—but fate has a funny way of playing with you.
I wish I could do something to mitigate the situation with Knox and his dad, but it’s really none of my business, and I wouldn’t want to make matters worse by coming between them. I just hate seeing Knox so hard on himself.
We’re talking about the Knox Mulligan here—the only guy at MU who doesn’t have a shy bone in his body and leads by arrogance rather than concerning himself with the opinions of sheep. He’s unshakeable. At least, that’s the act he puts on for everyone.
He’s thoroughly shaken now though, and by the hand of the man who wants to see him fall, no less. I can’t imagine having a parental figure who doesn’t support whatever career path you’ve chosen. I can’t imagine having a parental figure whose love comes with terms and conditions.
As I attempt the impossible and try to find Hassie in the endless rows of bleachers, my eyes scout a half-empty one down in front, occupied by a man in a neatly pressed suit who stands out like a corporate sore thumb.
A few chairs down, my friend is waving at me, already having ravaged the snack stand with her mountains of processed sugar.
Making my way over to my newly assigned seat, I register that some of the chairs flash “reserved” signage. This man—who’s about to become my roadblock—must be a scout of some sort. He’s wearing the wrong attire entirely, as if this hockey game is just a pit stop on his busy schedule.
I shuffle up to his outstretched legs, trying to make myself as small as possible. “Excuse me.”
His eyes are the first to hit me—bluer than a kiln fire and just as dangerous.
Despite the heat of his gaze, there’s no cordiality to be found in the ice-cold rink.
He’s staring at me with an undressed frown, mumbling a broken line of insults underneath his breath like I’d just inconvenienced him in the most inconceivable way.
With no more than a grunt, he stands up to allow me safe passage, smoothing out the nonexistent creases in his ensemble.
My instincts kick in as I pass this mysterious spectator, and there’s a gnawing in my belly that tells me I have no business being in the presence of a man who crushes dreams just for the fun of it.
When I make it over to Hassie, I’m still shamelessly staring at the magnate mongrel who couldn’t pick a worst place to spend his afternoon.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, gesturing to the abandoned stretch of seats.
“Heard something about one of the players reserving a few chairs for his girlfriend and dad,” she informs me through a mouthful of stadium popcorn.
Girlfriend? Dad? Surely that couldn’t have been…