Chapter 16
LIVELY
"What person's heart will flutter looking at this chicken scratch? It looks like a freaking serial killer wrote this shit."
Shit.
I stared at the crumpled note in my hand, eyeballs shaking inside my skull, completely dumbfounded.
A serial killer? A serial killer? Was she serious ?
I'd spent half the night agonizing over those words, trying to sound casual yet interested, funny but not obnoxious.
I'd written and rewritten that simple message at least fifteen times until my room looked like a paper recycling facility had exploded inside it.
And she thought it was a threat ? I mean, now that I was looking at it, I guess it looked kinda…
shit. My handwriting was atrocious. The letters were jagged and uneven.
The harder I'd concentrated on making it perfect, the worse it had gotten.
What had been meant as a sweet, flirtatious gesture now looked like something cut out of a ransom note.
"Crap," I muttered to myself, utterly mortified. "I really do write like a psychopath."
"Uh, I think our Captain's glitching, guys." Logan, that asshole, was standing over my hunched form, his amusement totally unrestricted in his voice.
"I mean, I'd be too, if the girl I liked told me my carefully worded note looked like something a serial killer wrote."
Double shit . I'd spent hours trying to come up with the perfect note, all those hours I'd spent deciding between "Sweet like you" and "Thinking of you" and "Looking forward to seeing you," only to have her think I was threatening her.
Me, who would sooner cut off my own arm than ever hurt her.
Why the fuck did she even think I would hurt her?
Maybe she was never going to laugh with me—only ever at me. Maybe this would forever remain just a joke to her.
Not like your actions did you any damn favors, either .
And, okay, maybe leaving the note in the locker like that could be seen as something only a creep would do, so that was on me for not thinking that far but I hadn't thought she thought of me as a fucking serial killer!
That was the only way she would get such a perspective out of all this, damn it.
Yeah, but Hailey Baleman hates your fucking guts, man. Think about it. Don't be an idiot.
Ah. Yep, this was my fault. I was the idiot here. I'd been too eager to do something nice to change her perception of me that I hadn't taken the time to think this through.
Ugh, what are you, a noob? Argh, damn it, I totally felt like one right now. I couldn't believe I'd fumbled this early all because I'd been too damn excited.
"Let's see the note!" Dylan snatched the note out of my grip before I could react, unraveling the paper in front of his face. The other guys gathered around him to look at the no doubt two-word note I'd spent hours cooking up, only for it to end in my damn tears.
"Holy shit," Randy finally said, his voice hushed with awe. "That really does look like something from a crime show."
"Dude," Matt took the paper from Dylan's hand, examining it closely. "Did you write this with your non-dominant hand while having a seizure?"
Fresh peals of laughter erupted around me as the note was passed from hand to hand, and I let out a tired sigh. Ah, shit.
"Hell, if she thinks that's something a serial killer wrote, what's she going to think if she finds his love poetry notebook?" Dylan's voice cut through my self-pity party.
"She's going to have a stroke," Matt replied, and the guys lost it completely.
"Love poetry notebook?" Logan repeated, his eyes lighting up like it was Christmas morning. "Summers, you didn't…?"
"Oh, he did," Dylan confirmed, the traitor. "You should see his room. It's like fucking…Shakespeare's nesting in there."
A collective "Ooooooh" went around the group, and I knew I had to wrap it up right there. That notebook was filled with half-written songs and poems about Hailey—her smile (the rare times I'd caught glimpses of it), her eyes, the way she moved on the ice like she owned it.
"I mean, what else can we expect from a guy who sneaks in to watch most of the Blizzard Belle pre-season friendlies just because of her?" Dylan chuckled.
“Yeah, that is certified stalker energy. Maybe she shouldn’t find out. She would defo freak . Out .” Martin said, and my jaw ticked.
Because… somehow, a part of me wanted her to know.
The thought was a revelation of a yearning I knew I couldn’t fully bury.
All this embarrassment, all this panic—but underneath it all, there was a tiny, pathetic part of me that wanted her to find that notebook.
To show her how much space she took up in my head.
For her to see me. To know I was serious about this, about her.
"Alright, cut it out—" I started to say, but the guys were obviously on a roll now.
"I bet he liked it when she called him a pervert," Randy stage-whispered to Mason.
"I hate every single one of you," I groaned, running one hand through my hair before rising to my feet. "You guys done?" I asked, cocking my head. Their laughter sputtered out gradually. "We're here to practice. And…give me that!" I snatched the note out of Logan's hand, crumpling it in my fist.
At my words, they disbanded, heading toward the ice, still whispering and snickering among themselves.
Fucking gossips, the lot of them. Unable to stop myself, I glanced down at the note again, sheer disbelief threading through my vision.
Damn it. How could something so well-intentioned go so catastrophically wrong?
I was a hopeless bastard, wasn’t I? Yeah, obviously, I still hadn't learned my lesson.
Still, a sliver of hope persisted in my chest. Because she hadn't returned the Snickers bar I'd left with the note. No, she'd kept it. That had to count for something, right?
"Ahem." Dylan cleared his throat, and I raised my head to find him lingering behind, watching me with that light of amusement still glowing in his gaze. "You good, man?"
I arched an eyebrow at him. "What?"
He folded his arms across his chest, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. "I mean, looks like Hailey's out to get you now."
Ah, right. That. I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face, or the heat that rushed to my cheeks.
"Hm," I hummed, nodding. "Yeah, she is."
My Hailstorm thought I was messing with her, and now she was going to mess right back.
Her parting words—"You want to play hardball?
We'll fucking play hardball"—kept echoing in my head.
Just remembering the way her eyes had lit up with that characteristically fierce determination, the angry flush on her cheeks, the way her braid had whipped around and hit me square in the face as she spun away—all of it sent a rush of heat straight to my groin.
I didn't know what expression Dylan saw on my face, but his own morphed into one of horrified disgust. "Goddamn this idiot," he muttered, shaking his head as he took a step back. "Put your damn tongue back in your mouth, you embarrassing bastard."
But I didn't give a shit about him right then.
Because my favorite disaster was about to dance with me again, and it was way more than I'd hoped for.
After two years of trying to get her to notice me, to react to me, to see me as more than just background noise, I had it now—her full attention.
And it really didn't matter that it was attention bought in the currency of her anger.
At least then she'd be thinking of me, too. God, I was so pathetic, wasn't I? Yes, I was, and I wasn't in the least bit sorry. Her attention was my favorite thing to win, after all.
"Damn, this crazy freak," Dylan muttered again, walking away and finally leaving me the fuck alone.
I took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control over my body. Yeah, I needed to get my shit together. This wasn't the time and place to laze about daydreaming about my perfect Hailstorm.
"Yo, Cap, you coming or what?" Logan called from inside the rink. "Coach is gonna have your ass if you don't get in here STAT."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," I called back, picking up my pace. I had practice to run.
As I stepped onto the ice, Coach Gunner gave me a hard look. "Nice of you to join us, Summers. Care to explain why half my team is giggling like schoolgirls instead of warming up?"
I cleared my throat, putting on my innocent-as-fuck face. "Ah, I wouldn't know, Coach. Maybe because they are a bunch of schoolgirls cosplaying as hockey players?"
Coach Gunner's lips twitched. "Wouldn't that be a travesty?" He blew his whistle, calling the team to attention. "Alright, ladies, pair up! Passing drills to start, then we'll run some plays against the defensive line."
"Ladies?" Logan muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I didn't know Coach had a kink like that."
"I identify as a delicate flower, not a lady," Matt declared, putting his hands on his hips in mock outrage.
Coach Gunner's weathered face remained impassive, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "You know what, Dawson? You're right. 'Ladies' is too dignified for the lot of you. How about 'whining toddlers'? That work better for you?"
"Ouch," Dylan chuckled. "He got you there, Matt."
"If you've got enough energy to critique my choice of words," Coach continued, his voice taking on that dangerously calm tone we all knew too well, "you've got enough energy to do an extra set of suicides after practice."
That shut them up quick. Coach caught my grin and raised an eyebrow.
"Something funny, Summers?"
I straightened my face immediately. "Not at all, sir."
"Now, MOVE IT, all of you! Or should I call the women's team back in to show you how it's done?"
That got everyone skating into position fast. As much as we all respected the Blizzard Belles' skills, none of us wanted to be shown up by the women's team.
I pushed all thoughts of Hailey aside—or tried to, at least—and focused on the drill. Hockey, at least, I understood. Hockey made sense in a way that feelings and relationships didn't. On the ice, I knew what I was doing—
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT, SUMMERS?" Coach Gunner bellowed as I missed a pass that should have been automatic. The puck skidded past me like my brain had temporarily disconnected from my body.
—ah. Nevermind.
"Sorry, Coach!" I called back, a stupid grin slashing across my face. "My bad."
Damn it, the anticipation was still thrumming in my veins, thoughts of Hailey still lurking in the fringes, darting in and out of my mind, slashing my focus every time—
"You want to play hardball? We'll fucking play hardball."
And I just couldn't wait to see what my perfect Hailstorm was going to throw at me.