Chapter 7
LIVELY
"Here lies a finished man." Dylan's voice rang out a pitch too damn loud, his best sports announcer impression drawing a few tired laughs from the other guys.
I didn’t bother looking up. Just flipped him the bird, still sprawled on my stomach across the bean bag in the living room of our shared apartment, my face half-buried in my phone.
Not that I was actually doing anything. I mean, other than staring at my string of unanswered texts to Hailey Baleman like it was some kind of ancient prophecy I was trying to decipher, even as I contemplated my next move.
Me : Are you really ignoring me, Hailstorm? At least leave me on read so I know you care.
Me : Actually, don't leave me on read. I’m fragile, Hailstorm. I might cry. And then, I'll have to tell Coach Hawkins you made me cry. And then we'll BOTH be suffering.
I was the only one suffering right now, though. It'd already been way over six hours, and she still hadn't even read any of the messages, not to talk of responding.
Fuck.
It looked like Dylan was right, after all. I mean, you could say I was a ‘finished’ man, seeing as I didn't even give a shit that impromptu party in our apartment was in full swing, but had my attention on my phone, and the absolute lack of message notifications like I'd expected.
That single, unholy tick on the string of messages sat there like a gravestone marking the slow and tragic death of the excitement that's been buzzing in my chest from the moment I'd punched in my number on her phone.
Now, that excitement was hanging on by one lonely ass thread, fighting for its life.
Or was it that I was the one fighting for mine?
I’d practically gifted her a perfect opportunity to roast me, and she hadn't even opened the damn package. Hadn’t even accepted the delivery. That damned tick on my messages was proof. It just sat there, mocking me.
Actually, don’t leave me on read. I’m fragile, Hailstorm. I might cry.
Well.
The joke was on me.
And fuckif these weren't actual honest-to-god tears threatening to form. Which was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. I was Lively Summers, star center and Captain of the Rink Runners, and I had a reputation (deserved or not) for making women cry, not the other way around.
And yet, here I was, about to lose my fucking mind because the woman who was driving me absolutely crazy was ignoring me like I didn't exist. Her leaving me hanging—not even giving me the dignity of being left on read—was doing things to my chest that felt suspiciously like cardiac arrest. Or maybe that was just what pure, desperate pining felt like.
Yeah, I should know what that felt like by now; since I've lived with it for the past two years already. Didn't mean it made it any freaking easier when she did this.
When she treated me like I was nothing—
"Dude," Dylan's voice cut through my spiral of self-pity. "You're literally whimpering. Like a kicked puppy."
Ah. Right. I couldn't even mope in peace.
Tsk.
"I am not," I protested, but even I could hear the pathetic note in my voice. Fuck. "I'm just... strategizing."
"Strategizing... right ." He echoed, looking like he was totally regretting all the choices that led to him being my roommate. "Well, I hope it's about how you're going to win the match."
Tch . There they went, nagging at me.
This damn party...well, plenary session, more like, was just so they could do that. A full-scale, completely unofficial team meeting had broken out the second we got back from the rink.
How could it not?
After what Hailey pulled earlier, there was no way the guys weren’t gonna turn this into an event. She’d challenged me to a one-on-one match. Right there, in front of everyone.
And of course, I had accepted the challenge without a second’s hesitation.
Had I thought about strategy? No .
Had I considered the consequences? Also no .
Had my brain short-circuited at how fucking beautiful she'd looked, daring me like that, that I'd said yes with absolutely no thoughts in my head but wanting to kiss the ground she walked on? Absolutely .
The couch groaned as someone dropped onto it, and I caught a blur of movement in my peripheral. Evan Cross—our left wing—was standing by the fridge, bottle of Gatorade in one hand, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a complicated math problem.
Then he opened his mouth, and the moment was ruined. "Are you really gonna play against a woman?"
This fucker .
"Yes, Evan, I really am. She challenged me, remember?"
Evan Cross was built like a Greyhound—lean, fast, and constantly vibrating with nervous energy. He wasn’t dumb , exactly, but he had a bad habit of saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.
He frowned. “Like, actually play her? You’re not just gonna... let her win?”
I cocked a brow. What the fuck?
Logan Kelly—our right wing, and the biggest shit-stirrer on the team—let out a low whistle. “Damn. Straight to the jugular.” He was flipping a hockey puck between his fingers like some kind of magician; his long frame slouched deep into the couch. “I mean... he’s got a point, Cap.”
These little shits. "How the hell does he have a point?”
Logan’s grin widened. “I mean, we just think she's going to win this one.” He said, sounding way too damn confident for my liking.
No, wait. What the heck, though?
"And that's why I bet my money on Baleman." Matt Dawson—our starting goalie—snapped his fingers with a diabolical grin on his face.
"Oh, yeah," Dylan glanced up from his phone, his tone pitched at that ‘Right, I just remembered something you should know’ octave. "The whole team has money on your match against Baleman."
Ah.
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. I should have expected this. Of course, these assholes would go this far. “Please tell me at least one of you has faith in me.”
Dylan just grinned. “Aw naw, dude. No one bet on you.”
I shot upright so fast my phone nearly went flying, but I didn't give a shit about that. My gaze was shifting between each of my teammates in the room.
“ No one? ” I echoed, incredulity threaded into each syllable.
Funny how, now, none of them could meet my eyes at all anymore.
Ha, brotherhood , am I right? These traitors.
"I did." Randy Barnes, our starting defenseman, leaned back against the armrest of the couch, ankles crossed, arms folded over his chest like he had all the time in the world.
Randy was built like a tank—broad-shouldered, thick-muscled, the kind of guy who could send someone flying into the boards and not even blink. He had an easygoing, laid-back vibe, but on the ice, he was a goddamn wall. If you were trying to get past him, you were going to feel it.
His voice was slow and deliberate as always when he spoke again. “I bet on you, Cap.”
I blinked. “Wait. You did? ” I mean, maybe I shouldn’t have sounded so shocked about it, but I really hadn’t expected it with the way Dylan’d been mouthing off.
Randy shrugged one shoulder, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah.”
That was one guy out of twenty —fucking— five . Man.
"You assholes," I turned to the others, "what the hell is this? You do realize we play against actual opposing teams who have actual players with actual skill, right?”
Why the hell did these idiots think I was going to lose ?
Matt just grinned, stretching his long legs across the coffee table. “Sure. But none of them makes you forget how to function.”
Mason Hughes—another one of our active roster defensemen, with arms like timbers—tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’m with them.”
I groaned. “Mason, et tu?”
“Sorry, man. I mean, you’re a great player and all, but...” He trailed off.
“But?” What?
“But you get weird around Baleman, man.” He said, that shrug now mirrored in his tone.
Well, I couldn't quite deny that, but surely that wasn't enough reason for this near consensus, right? What the hell was it?
“The real question isn’t whether Lively turns into a blushing idiot around Baleman—” Dylan started, and I flipped him the bird again.
“Fuck you, man.” Said it for good measure, too.
“—it’s whether he’s actually going to try to beat her.”
That shut everyone up real fast. The room went still, and all eyes turned to me.
And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. The teasing was still there, yeah, but beneath it was something else. Something heavier. And I realized exactly what they were all thinking:
These bastards were actually banking on the fact that I might lose it on the ice from being around Hailey Baleman.
The hell? My expression must have been something because the guys started to mumble some shit to me.
“Hey, don’t take it personally, man. It’s just…she’s Hailey Baleman .” Dylan raised his hands in mock surrender, but the rest of the guys looked like they agreed with him, nonetheless.
So, that was their problem, huh? I mean, it wasn't like I'd kept my complete obsession with her a secret.
I wouldn't have been able to pull that off if I'd tried.
It usually took everything inside me to keep a relaxed facade around her, I knew that, they knew that, we all knew that.
But for them to think I'd lose my professionalism?
Sure, my stomach stayed twisting itself into knots that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the fact that, for the first time in my life, I was actually excited at the prospect of losing, but these bastards were already calling my loss like it was a fucking done deal?
"Hey, man, you haven't answered the question. Are you really intending to let her win without even putting up a fight—?"
His words shut off what was left of the humor in me like a switch. It was one thing to joke and tease me about my feelings for Hailey Baleman, but it was a whole other load of bull to imply that I'd sacrifice my team just for her.