11. Harper
11
“ T he grin—what’s it about?” Nic asked.
I shouldn’t have been grinning at all. I shouldn’t have wanted anything to do with Troy ever again. It took everything I had in me to kiss him again at that bar just so I could lure him to a trap—one that I’d failed miserably. A kiss that, as brief as it was, was so much better than I remembered.
Soft, tender lips that screamed, “Oh my God, she’s kissing me,” as opposed to the “Hey baby, get in line” attitude I was expecting.
My insecurities ran deep as I wondered if he was just that good. If he was just playing the player all along that night and all this time, I was the one who’d walked into a trap.
I forced myself to shake it off.
Troy was never that conniving. He didn’t have the brains for it. He never cared enough to scheme. Too selfish for it.
But saying that now just didn’t feel right.
“The new latte you created this morning. It’s really good. What’d you put in it? Cinnamon?”
“Could it be a certain hockey player that just makes everything taste good?”
“I’m not telling you anything. Last time I did, my ex’s mother caught me jerking off produce.”
She burst out laughing. “I know. Classic. You’ll laugh about it too one day.”
“Doubt it,” I muttered. Truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Troy’s plea for me to come to tonight’s game and what on earth he was planning. He’d called just before my shift ended last night, and though I hadn’t actually agreed to come, somehow, I knew he was expecting me.
“Troy asked me to go to his game tonight,” I bit my lip and waited for her to grill me about what was going on with us. But she just watched me, sipping her coffee slowly.
“I know I shouldn’t go.”
“I agree. The guy needs to come right out and say what he wants instead of dragging you to his games like you’re some groupie.”
“He said he’s going to give me what I was after that night at the bar.”
Her brows drew together. “Does he know what that is? Cause I’m not sure you do.”
I shook my head, hardly hearing what she was saying. “I know I shouldn’t go,” I repeated.
“What are you afraid of? That he’s plotting a hookup in the halls again just to spite you?”
“I don’t know, but he did say I could bring a friend…” I raised my brows at her.
Nic’s eyes went wide. “Oh, this I’ve got to see. What time?”
“Seven.”
“Perfect, we’ll grab dinner after work and head over.”
My stomach flipped in excitement and twisted in dread.
These mixed feelings were going to be the end of me, and I needed to put a stop to them after tonight.
“Oh, you’ve made it to another one, huh?” The guy who was sitting in the same seat to my right chuckled. He and his girlfriend—or wife—were here for last week's game too. I hadn’t talked much then and they seemed very disinterested in speaking to me all the same.
“Excuse me?” I asked, slipping into my seat, with Nic following behind me.
The woman next to him slapped his forearm with the back of her hand and leaned over him. “Don’t pay attention to my husband. He’s just living vicariously through Hartman and his…” She scanned me and winced slightly, “Never mind…welcome back hun.”
I glanced back at Nic, who rolled her eyes and shook her head, sitting herself next to me.
“Who are you here for?” I asked.
“Simmons. That’s my brother,” the woman said. “I’m Mila.”
“Harper.”
“You’re a pretty one.” She shook her husband’s arm. “Babe switch seats with me, I want to sit next to Harper.”
He shook his head and stood, letting her slide in beside me. “It’s cool you’re here again.” She looked me up and down. “And you’re dressed for it. Usually, the girls Troy has here look like they’re ready for an after-party.”
Nic grunted beside me, but I ignored her. I wasn’t here in the same capacity as those other girls. Troy and I were not getting involved again.
I was here for a reason.
Just hope I’ll know it when it happens.
I rubbed at the ridges of my sweater. “Oh, well, I’m always cold,” I told her, feeling as though I needed to respond to the unnecessary comment about Troy’s girlfriends.
I hated that it stung a little.
I turned as the cheering started. The Brooklyn Blades were entering the ice. My eyes landed on Troy. It felt so natural. He immediately scanned to look for me this time—spotting me, he smiled.
I didn’t smile back.
Of course, this was who Troy was—a womanizer. And I was his flavor of the week, apparently.
I was getting sick to my stomach—guts twisting with doubt, confusion, and anger.
That kiss. That glorious kiss. How could someone who’d mindlessly hurt me years ago kiss me like it’s all he ever wanted?
Troy tapped his stick on the ice twice and took position. In high school, Troy's signature move was a toe drag. It was a nervous tick he had. But he wasn’t nervous here. He was confident. Ready. Patient.
When the puck dropped, he went for it. I watched his moves, his steals, the evenness and self-assurance that emanated from him—it was captivating. I didn’t know hockey well, but it was always tough watching Troy play. He was good, but he struggled with the game, fought to keep up and always seemed to pick a fight.
The ice was clear during intermission before third period and I was starting to plan my exit because I was not about to get stuck behind a wild crowd again.
“I want to go before the game ends,” I warned Nic softly so the couple next to us didn’t ask questions. Mila had been grilling me for the past thirty minutes about how I knew Troy and if it was serious between us. I told her she could count on someone else being in this seat next week. After that, she pretty much left me alone.
“Are you kidding? How do we find out who wins?”
I deadpanned her. "We work at a sports magazine.”
“Hardly.”
I glanced around, then over my shoulder, searching for the nearest exit. When the howling began again— joined by strange murmurs of confusion—I knew I needed to move fast—while people were still seated and the paths remained clear.
I yelped and flipped around when Nic squeezed my thigh. “What the hell, Nic?”
Her eyes were glued to someone on the ice. There was only one player, oddly, and I didn’t hear the signal that the last period was starting. The players’ back was to me, but I knew the number. It was Troy.
He was taxiing the rink, carrying something that looked like a poster board in his hands. He was scanning the crowd as if waiting for the right moment.
I frowned. What was he doing?
Finally, now that he’d gotten everyone’s attention, Troy shifted to the nearest cameraman and held up his sign. He flashed a sexy grin at the camera and continued around the rink, holding it up high for the crowd.
A mixture of gasps, cheers, boos and claps went around the arena like a flash mob as Troy continued to circle. My section was last, and he lingered for a moment until my hazy eyes could make out the large sign.
H.M.—I’m an Ass.
You deserved better.
“Holy shit,” Nic hissed beside me before turning with her mouth hanging.
I blinked. “Why would he do that?” I breathed.
“What did you say your last name was?” Mila shouted through the roars beside me.
I didn’t answer. I stared at the sign with my initials. Was that even legal? He’d told me he was going to give me what I was after. Did he think I wanted this ?
“Can you say ‘Ass’ on television?”
“Nope.” Nic and Mila’s husband both answered.
I shook my head. This was going to get him suspended, which would just make me feel responsible. I brushed a hand across my forehead, feeling flushed.
He tossed the posterboard over to the bench, a clear smirk on his face. He was proud of this. Of shaming himself in front of millions of viewers.
He’s so stupid.
He’s out of his mind .
He’s reckless .
He’s …
As he was escorted off the ice, he looked up at me with a smirk that lifted to a familiar dimple on the corner of his mouth. My face flattened as heat flooded through my veins.
Not Troy .
Almost six years ago.
My chest seized. There he is. Oh, that’s not him.
Troy Hartman wouldn’t be caught dead walking out of the robotics room. I laughed at the thought. Then smiled thoughtfully at the other twin. Always so sharp, his glasses suited him somehow. Another dead giveaway that he wasn’t Troy.
They were so identical. How did their parents tell them apart? There had to be something. I was sure I studied Troy’s features to a tee when I’d secretly sketched him during his practices.
“Hi,” I said to the other twin.
He turned and stared at me. His mouth opened slightly but he looked around as if to confirm it was him I was talking to.
“Sorry, I just wanted to officially introduce myself, we keep passing each other, and well, you never—”
“You’re Harper Maxwell, I know.”
At least one of them knew my name. “You’re August Hartman.”
“Yep.” He turned from me, opening his locker.
“Wow, impressive,” I breathed.
He grinned, glancing over at me and I took the moment to study his face.
There it was. A charming deep dimple on his left cheek. Much deeper than Troy’s, who only had a faint hint of one on the same side. I would know, I practically gawked at that boy walking these halls for weeks since I started at East Brooklyn.
“Yeah, um…you see this…uh, lever back here? Just lift it at the same time you pull down the lock.” He demonstrated again.
I shook my head. “You have no idea how long it took me to figure that out.” I giggled, which was unlike me, but he was so tense, it was a little awkward.
He nodded.
“Anyway, good meeting you, officially, I guess.”
I turned, somehow not expecting him to say anything else to me.
“If you ever need help with anything else,” he shrugged, and I waited for a moment before I realized there wasn’t more to that.
I nodded. “Right. Thanks.”