Chapter 23
LUCY
I’m not the stupid one in this conversation.
Isat and stared at my unanswered text as Leslie gracefully flitted around me, getting ready for the game. I sat on her bed, sullen and sulking, not interested in seeing a man who hadn’t shown one ounce of remorse. Even if it technically was my job to be there.
“But I don’t want to go to the game,” I whined as Leslie dragged me through the doors into the melee.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go to the game.
It was that I didn’t want to see Blake. He’d left me on read.
And since I had no interest in being watched by the douchebag asshole creep who couldn’t even get his dick out of his own ass long enough to reply to a text, I was hiding out in Leslie’s old dorm room to avoid the cameras he’d planted.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “It’s the semi-finals. Besides, you wouldn’t have put this much effort into how you looked if you didn’t want to be seen.”
“I always put effort into how I look,” I pointed out. It was one of the few lessons my mother had taught me that I actually internalized.
“Seen by Coach,” she clarified.
She was right.
I was pissed off and disappointed, but I wanted answers from him.
And what’s more, I wanted to see him. My body was getting used to the feeling of being held by him, and the absence of his chest against my back made me feel raw and like something was missing—something essential.
I hated that I felt that way, but I did.
I needed answers, I needed him to finally fucking kiss me.
I needed him. That was the embarrassing truth:
I, Lucy Braverman, the woman who needed no one, needed Blake Samson.
Fuck.
I swallowed back tears that had this obnoxious way of showing up all the time.
I managed to keep them at bay on the way out of their apartment and in the car ride over to the arena. But after we parked and headed inside, I froze.
“I really don’t want to do this,” I said.
“Maybe, but you still can. Be brave, Braverman,” Leslie said.
I glanced at her, distracted momentarily from my angst.
“How long have you wanted to use that?” I asked.
“Since I first learned your last name,” she confessed.
Out of the blue, I hugged her. “Be my bestie forever, okay?”
She hugged me right back. “Okay.”
I released her and she grabbed my hand, guiding me through the crowd of excited fans and into the stands.
There was a more or less permanent spot for her—well, us—in the rows above the penalty box.
We sat, Leslie blushing and excited in Mason’s number.
I had recklessly decided to wear Emory’s number.
I knew men who played (and coached) hockey.
I knew how they felt when the woman they cared about wore another man’s name and number on her back.
If Blake actually cared about me, if he felt territorial toward me at all, I was playing with fire.
But since I wanted to set some things on fire right now, namely him, I was fine with it.
Like she’d followed my train of thought, Leslie shook her head.
“You’re about to get your ass in so much trouble,” she sang out, but then Mason waved at her and blew her a kiss, and she forgot all about me.
Emory, who was currently stretching, paused and looked at me, clearly alarmed.
What the hell are you doing, he mouthed.
I shrugged.
Making trouble, I mouthed back, winking.
He shook his head, and my gaze went where I knew it would: to the man in the suit, tablet in hand, conferring with Trey over a play or something. As if he could feel me staring at him, he turned his head, catching my gaze.
A small smile played on his lips, and he played with his tie…only for his lips to flatten into a grim line as he realized what I was wearing.
And then, because I felt like pissing him off, I stretched and turned around so he could see Emory’s last name (van der Linde), and number (96) from all the best angles.
It helped that I was wearing booty shorts and had curled my hair that morning.
I could feel his perusal, and what’s more, I could feel his barely banked anger as he stared at me.
Turning back around, I blew him a kiss and winked for good measure before taking my seat.
Blake slammed his hand on his tablet and blew his whistle, jerking his thumb at Emory and saying something. I strained my ears, but I couldn’t hear over the loud chatter in the stands.
Emory looked pissed, but he pulled his helmet off his head and went back to the bench.
“Is he taking him out of the game?” Leslie whispered, eyes wide.
Oh shit.
What had I done?
Then Blake jerked his thumb at me.
I shook my head once.
No, I mouthed.
He jerked his thumb again.
People were watching the whole exchange, and some craned their necks to see who the highest-ranked hockey coach in the NCAA was talking to. When they saw it was me, the chattering and whispers got worse.
I didn’t get embarrassed easily, I didn’t. But having hundreds, maybe thousands, of people paying attention to me—especially when my face showed up on the jumbotron—was no match for my normal ability to shake things off.
Annoyed, I picked up my bag and told a wide-eyed Leslie, “See you later, if I live,” before I was clunking down the metal stairs of the stands.
I could feel the crowd’s eyes on me as I climbed over the metal railing to get behind the bench.
It would have been more elegant of me to have left the stands and used the player entrance, but fuck that.
If Coach wanted to embarrass me, I’d embarrass him right back.
Coach, who currently stood in front of the bench, one foot on the boards, watched me instead of his players stretching.
When he saw me awkwardly making my way in, all Blake said was, “You work for the team, remember?”
Oh. Right.
This wasn’t about me, this was about my job.
Still.
“Why are you benching Emory? He’s first line,” I challenged.
“Because he fucked around, and now he’s going to find out. Want me to do the same to you?”
I could tell him all about fucking around and finding out. And from the tenseness of his jaw, he knew I could. But instead, he just pointed.
“Go refill everyone’s water bottles and get towels. I want you standing there—” he pointed next to where he and Trey stood— “throughout the entire game in case we need you.”
I opened my mouth. He was the stalker, how was I in trouble?
As if he read my mind, he said. “I’m your boss now, remember?”
Oh, and I could ruin that for him.
I could ruin everything for him. One sentence to the dean, and I could destroy his entire career—and my own future. That was the real fire I was playing with.
But I also remembered the way he’d carried me inside his house last night, carefully washing my body and making sure shampoo didn’t get in my eyes, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it.
So instead, I trudged off to refill water bottles and get towels like the good girl I sometimes pretended to be, even if I daydreamed about putting laxatives in his water bottle. That would’ve been a better choice than Vice. That’s what he deserved.
As I headed to the tunnel, Emory called after me, “Don’t cause any more trouble, troublemaker.” He sounded huffy.
But not nearly as pissed as Coach when he turned to him and said, “Don’t you fucking call her that, or I’ll kick you off this team for good.”
Emory slunk down where he sat. “Got it.”
“Good.”
Oh god. We were going to be spending a lot of time in close quarters for the next few hours, and I hoped we all survived.
After the first period, the team headed back to the locker room.
I followed, sandwiched by Blake and Trey.
I was careful not to even look at Emory, in case Coach saw me and decided to bench him for the rest of the season to teach him a lesson or to follow through on his earlier threat and kick him off the team entirely.
When we reached the locker room, Coach grabbed my upper arm, holding me back.
Trey looked over at him with questioning eyes.
“I need to talk to Lucy for a second. I’ll be right in.”
Trey’s lips pursed, but he just shrugged and left us alone in the hallway.
“Lucy…” Blake trailed off, for once at a loss for words.
“Oh, I can help with this,” I said. “Lucy, I’m sorry. Lucy, I fucked up. Lucy, I promise not to do sketchy shit anymore instead of talking to you directly about my feelings…”
His forest green eyes were paler than usual. He shut them, and swallowed, then reopened them, focusing on my face.
He spoke. “Lucy, what I did was wrong. I never in a million years should have bugged your dorm room, stolen your underwear, or hidden in your room and listened to you come—”
“Wait, I’m sorry. You did what the fuck now?” I interrupted.
He’d been in there when I’d jilled off? Oh god, I’d been fantasizing about him. I’d said his name. I was embarrassed, and I hated that. He was the one who should be embarrassed.
“No wonder you knew I was into you,” I said. “That’s so fucked up.”
He nodded. “I know. It was. It is. I was in the middle of bugging your room when you showed up, and so I had to hide under the bed—”
“You fit under my bed? You’re a giant!”
That didn’t actually matter, but it was what occurred to me in the moment.
He clearly thought the same. “That’s what you care about?”
“No, but I’m trying to picture it. You, underneath my bed while I was getting myself off…” I trailed off, really picturing it. “Did you wrap a hand around that big cock when you listened to me?”
His Adam’s apple worked. “Are you trying to seduce me, or do you want an explanation? Because the former can’t happen here, and the latter is more important right now, anyway.”
Damn it, he was right. I was distracted by him too easily.
“It depends on how good the explanation is,” I said honestly. “And you still haven’t apologized.”