Chapter Two – Fawn #2
Unhinged laughter echoes around, cutting across the sounds of sticks and skates scraping the ice.
One guy pushes another one pretty forcefully, so he wobbles for a moment, and the banter begins immediately.
I can only hear snippets of it from where I sit, but I catch the drift.
“Dude, your head is bigger than the fuckin’ net and you still can’t score. ”
The other player laughs and flips the bird without hesitation. And this is what I came for.
I really don’t want to miss anything, so I get my notebook out and start writing. I get so caught up in each little detail, I almost don’t hear when the music shifts.
Almost.
Obnoxious wolf whistles nearly cover the music. Wait, who is that for? I press my lips together and just stare at my notes, hoping no one has noticed me. I’m probably imagining it, but damn, the whistles are a little too close for comfort.
Am I being whistled at? Okay, I’m sounding a little big-headed here.
I don’t actually want to look up, but curiosity just takes control. ‘Smooth Criminal’ by Michael Jackson blasts through the speakers, and then I see him.
Number Ten. Crawley.
He moonwalks across the ice like he’s a pro, like he knows he’s got it.
It’s like this moment is all about him, and we’re just here to watch him rock it.
Oh man, he totally thinks he’s all that.
And the worst part? He kind of is. His teammates are completely pumping him up, making these crazy howls and whistles; it’s like some sort of out-of-control bachelor party.
The inside of my cheek catches between my teeth and it’s the only thing keeping my expression neutral. Suddenly, in a moment of sheer idiocy, he kicks a puck up, and it lands on his stick — completely unnecessary. What a show-off! This dude loves himself.
Okay, he’s good-looking, sure, no doubt about it. With his chiseled jawline, perfect smile, and light brown hair peeking out from beneath his helmet, he gives off this cocky attitude that some people can get away with without being complete jerks.
Without warning, a sudden stinging sensation fills my cheeks. Dammit! Am I blushing over the arrogant hockey guy with a penchant for showing off?
I hold my pen as if it were the only tool holding up my sanity and attempt to come up with something besides Number Ten and his over-the-top MJ dance moves. I need to concentrate and get my mind back in the game. I am here for my book, not to play around with whatever that was. But then—
A hand comes up behind me, resting casually on the back of my seat near my shoulder.
Someone was behind me the whole time.
A four-leaf clover tattoo catches my eye as I do a double take, and my gut drops, twisting into a knot so tight, it hurts.
Oh my God, it’s my ex.
A violent surge zips through my body. I leap out of my chair as if I’d just sat on a hot coal, and my notebook soars across the concrete. The weight of my own limbs holds me in place. Each breath is raspy, my eyes wide.
In a second, my brain is going down memory lane to a place I hate to visit. There is no way I’m really seeing what I’m seeing.
As the adrenaline wears off, I let my gaze settle on the guy.
Oh, wait. It’s not Jason.
A few unkempt strands of blond hair protrude from under this guy’s hoodie.
He is fidgeting with a pair of Ray-Bans, just tapping his fingers.
He smells clean, like clothes fresh out of the dryer.
I get it, summer mode and all that, but his tan is insane, a gorgeous, relaxed golden brown, like a Greek god.
“I come in peace, I swear,” he states, holding up both hands.
So, I just completely flipped out in front of this stranger who has the same tattoo as my ex. He probably thinks I’m crazy. Maybe if I had some caffeine in me, I wouldn’t have acted the way I did.
My knuckles loosen. “So—sorry,” I stutter, stooping down and grabbing my notepad.
Note to self: I’m avoiding any guys with four-leaf clover tats.
“I’m Cal.” The guy extends his hand as if I hadn’t just completely embarrassed myself. “Well, my name is actually Callum, but the team calls me Cal. I didn’t mean to scare you, by the way.”
I’m somewhat surprised he wants to shake my hand after I freaked out over his tattoo. I mean, he’s probably convinced I’m some kind of freak who has it in for four-leaf clovers, but I compose myself just enough to say, “Fawn.”
I take his hand and give it a little shake. His warmth completely relaxes me.
Cal withdraws his hand. “So, are you a journalist or something?” A journalist? Seriously, how did he even think of that? I can’t help but frown when he begins gesturing toward the pad in my hand. “It’s just — I saw you writing.”
“Oh.” That makes perfect sense. “I’m no journalist. Just here to do some research.”
His eyebrows arch a little. “Oh, nice. Like, science-type things?”
This guy really thinks I look smart enough to be a scientist. I wonder if he will understand my sarcasm. “Oh, totally. A deep exploration of how cocky ice hockey players are.”
He bursts out laughing, his eyes getting all squinty at the corners. “Whoa. I guess I should be careful about my own behavior, huh?”
“Ah, you’re a player? So why are you up here and not on the ice?”
Cal looks past me and down at the ice. For a moment, his face softens, as if he is getting all mushy about something. “I’ve been traveling around the world,” he explains, his tone a little deeper now. “They have no idea I’m home. Thought I’d surprise them.”
Damn, it must be nice to travel the world. Just pick up a bag, hop on a plane, and disappear into some remote part of the world where the sun always shines. Unfortunately, I can’t leave Ivywood right now.
“That’s nice—” I start to say, but then a realization hits me. “Hang on. Were you behind me the whole time?”
He blinks, and then his lip twitches a little. “What, like some kinda stalker? Nope. I came in through a fire escape. Don’t worry, I didn’t look at your notes.”
“Good, because they’re super confidential,” I joke, opening the notepad with a flourish. “It’s all about how Number Ten is all full of himself with his slick moonwalk.”
Cal shakes his head. “Ah, man. Slick? Don’t give Dylan an ego boost. That’s the last thing we need. He’s already the captain and has the girls all after him.”
Ah, so that’s his name — Dylan Crawley, and of course, he’s the captain — he would have to be with such a cocky attitude. I completely understand why women would be interested in him. The guy is good-looking and oozes confidence.
Before I even know it, a loud whistle rings out, and I instinctively sit down without even realizing it. Meanwhile, Cal does the complete opposite. He slumps in his chair as if he is attempting to become one with it.
I raise an eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing?”
Cal places a finger on his lip and doesn’t respond.
The older man from earlier walks onto the ice. Immediately, all the skaters spring into gear, gliding over to him and forming a loose circle. I can really feel the atmosphere shift — not extremely serious, but definitely more intense, like they all understand it’s time to really focus.
The older man crosses his arms, and you can just tell from the way the other men stare at him — he is the coach.
That makes sense. The guy has this energy like he just won’t tolerate any bullshit.
The players fall quiet, waiting for instructions, but Number Ten? He’s still grinning.
Of course he is.
“Coach Richards,” Cal says, breaking the silence. “You can write that down.”
Ah, Martin Richards, the man who emailed me.
“Oh, great. Thanks a lot. My research would absolutely be nothing without this fantastic information.” I put my thumb up sarcastically.
Cal grins, clearly pleased with himself, but I disregard him and focus on the ice again.
Coach Richards doesn’t even need to shout to get the players’ attention. He talks in a steady voice, the kind of voice that makes men question their life choices. I can’t hear much from up here, but honestly, I don’t have to.
A flash of movement cuts through my peripheral vision — a man gliding onto the ice.
His helmet is off, and his dark brown, wavy, chin-length hair is slightly mussed, as if he just got out of bed or simply doesn’t care to be here. Light stubble shadows his jawline, only adding to the impression.
Coach Richards doesn’t stutter. “You’re late, Anderson.” It’s not a reprimand; he’s just clearly stating a fact without hesitation.
The player — Anderson — doesn’t even blink. No apology. He just shuffles into the circle.
My gaze flickers to his jersey number. Thirteen. Huh. Unlucky for some.
I tilt my head back, mouthing to Cal, Who’s that?
“Torin Anderson. Brilliant hairline, but a miserable fucker.”
Cal’s not wrong. The man has better hair than me, and he pulls off the style so well with his stubble.
“Alright, get moving, Wolves!” Coach Richards hollers, his voice echoing over the rink as he blows his whistle.
The players quickly break formation, falling into their own routines.
I see Crawley skate over to Anderson and give him a friendly punch on the arm.
Anderson just gives him the side-eye, like he’s considering something.
Crawley is totally unfazed. There’s a comfort between them — the kind of easy, unspoken bond that comes naturally. Brother-like.
I squint, wondering if they are brothers. Crawley seems slightly younger. Without even looking, I ask Cal, “Hey, are Anderson and Crawley related?”
“Nope,” he responds matter-of-factly. “They’re just close. Childhood friends.”
That’s some great character inspiration for my book.
I focus back on the ice but freeze, having to do a double take. What the fuck am I witnessing? Saliva surges, filling my mouth.
It literally looks like a group of grown men in hockey equipment are humping the ice.
“Whaaat the—” I blink. There’s no way my eyes are playing tricks on me.
An unexpected heat blooms below — this is the last thing I need in my life right now.