Chapter 1 #2
He stares at me for a couple of seconds, then shakes his head and pushes away. "Nothing, Squeak,” he tosses back at me. “You just stand right there and look awestruck."
"I do not look—" But he's turned away and is skating off already. I wrinkle my nose at his tone.
God, I really hate the growly, nearly threatening way he says that stupid nickname. More than that, I loathe the way he describes me. Awestruck. As if. I'll show him awestruck.
Fuming, I watch him as he skates off to join the other players.
Because this is a summer skate day, he's dressed ultra-casually, wearing a fitted vintage Seattle Havoc t-shirt, a pair of black athletic shorts, and his skates.
Every inch of exposed skin is covered in tattoos; some freehand, some neat patterns, but all colorful and bursting with energy.
When he lifts his hockey stick, his biceps jump and his jersey number – 19 – stands out.
I swallow. Dude might be a jerk, but he's awfully nice on the eyes.
But again, a total dick. And absolutely the last person that I should be harboring this horrible secret crush on.
I make my way around to where Indie is filming, taking a few short videos of the guys as they play. Beck and Thorne are among the only ones here year-round. They don't take summers off. But what the audience wants to see has nothing to do with their work ethic.
They want the asses. The tattoos. Sweaty boys humping the ice while they stretch.
I put my head down and focus on filming. When Beck calls an end to the practice, I’m left blinking.
Where did the last hour go?
As the players start to move off the ice, I look over at Indie. She's already slinging her bag over her shoulder and checking the time on her phone.
"Got dance practice?" I ask.
"Always." Indie wrinkles her nose good-naturedly. "Thanks for letting me crash your grownup job."
As opposed to my dream job, the one I'll never have again. I can't decide if I'm thankful she doesn't mention it.
"Anytime!" I catch myself. "Anytime in the summer, that is. Everything is more laid back right now."
"I have to run, but we're still on for a bad movie marathon, right?"
I clap my hands excitedly. "Yes! The next one on our list is about aliens who come to earth to steal our reserves of pizza. It looks abysmal."
"It’d better be terrible. Let's do it soon, okay?" Indie gives me a quick hug, then jogs off toward the tunnel.
Sighing, I sink down onto one of the benches.
I could make the fifteen-minute walk between the practice rink and the tin can I call my office.
It's shoved at the very end of a hall with the rest of the PR and merchandising offices, and due to its odd size and lack of windows, I'm pretty sure it used to be a supply closet.
I'm not especially fussed. More often than not, I just use my phone for editing videos, posting content, and responding to comments on our socials.
Right now, I pull out my clunky spare battery bank and plug it into my phone. Then I flip through the videos I've taken today.
The footage of Theo is gold. And there are a lot of great shots of Beck helping his teammates take shots on the goal. I nibble my bottom lip.
On the video, he whistles to grab Connor's attention, then waits for the perfect moment to pass. Connor snags the puck and snaps it home. I smirk at the pride in Thorne's expression. "That's how you do it, Li!"
He may be a sarcastic prick to me, but he openly and regularly expresses his pride in how well the other players perform. There is definitely a reason he is co-captain with my brother Beck. They both love nurturing new talent.
Damn Thorne. It's admirable. And dangerous. Because he's not like the other ones. He's the only hockey player I've ever met who doesn't make me want to run in the other direction. Which is a problem, because of the whole I-don’t-even-get-crushes-on-hockey-players thing.
I'm in the middle of watching the video a second time when a dark shape looms over me. "What are you doing?"
Yelping, I scramble away, falling off the bench. My phone skitters across the floor. Thorne is staring down at me with a quizzical smirk.
I press my hand to my pounding heart. "You can't just go around creeping up on people, Thorne. It’s ghoulish."
Thorne sighs as he helps me up, casting his gaze around for my phone. He's traded his skates for a pair of crisp white sneakers that probably cost more than my car. I shiver at the zing of his touch, but he's already stepping back and shaking off my grip.
He leans over, spots my phone, and the attached power bank, and snatches them from under the bleachers. He looks at the screen and a grin splits his face. "Stalking me, as usual. I should've known."
"I was not." I swipe my phone from his hand and glare up at him. "How many times do I have to explain the concept of ‘working for the team’ to you?"
"Obviously a few more. I'm still convinced that you took this job so you can stare at pictures of me." His eyes sparkle. "You can admit it. I bet your apartment is one big shrine dedicated to yours truly. Flowers, candles, golden statues of me shooting the winning goal? I bet it's lavish."
"Question." I cock my head to the side. "In the delusion, have I taken up statue-making? Or did I purchase a statue from someone else?"
"Details, details." Thorne flaps a hand. "You're asking a god whether the ants ate enough at breakfast last week."
I can't help the snort that escapes me. "You are so full of yourself, Thorne."
"You know, I bet that you dream about me at night. Maybe you even have a shrine dedicated to me in that hovel you call an apartment?”
“What? I do not!” I glare at him. “And my apartment isn’t a hovel.”
"Uh huh." His lips twitch as he looks me up and down. "Beck mentioned that your beloved beater of a car is in the shop again. He asked me to give you a ride."
"Don't talk about Car-di B like that."
"What a dumb car name."
I give him the stink eye. "I'll fight you. Car-di B is perfect and I won't hear a word against her. It doesn't matter how many times her muffler falls off."
He groans. "I can't believe you sometimes. You and Beck both act like you grew up in perestroika rather than lower middle class."
"Easy for you to say, Mr. One-Percenter. Besides, I'm proud to say I don't even get that reference. Is it because you're so old that you're practically a walking corpse?"
"Brat."
I stick out my tongue at him. "What's that, Grandpa?"
He taps his car keys against the metal bench beside him. "So, is that a ‘no’ on getting a ride? I have places to be."
"Like at home, jerking off in front of a mirror?"
"You'd love that, wouldn't you?"
"What? I… I wouldn't care."
"Squeak…" He rolls his eyes. "You're so transparent. You know that, right?"
"You suck. And I'll be fine. I'm sure you have some puck bunnies to round up."
"That sounds so gross coming from you." He makes a face. "But suit yourself. See you later, Squeak."
"I hate that nickname!" I call after him as he walks away.
"I can't even begin to care!" he quips, not bothering to look over his shoulder.
Why in the fuck is he like this?
Is it dislike of teammates' siblings? A genuine dislike of redheads?
Or is it hatred for me personally?
When Thorne disappears into the tunnel, I heave out a breath and follow, moving extra slowly so I don't cross his path again. I emerge just as he is crossing the parking lot to his white SUV.
God, just look at him, his dark hair scattered across his forehead, his tatted biceps jumping as he throws his hockey bag in the back seat.
I made a rule for a reason. No hockey players.
They're selfish and charming, and they'll use you up and move on.
I watched my mom become a supporting character in my dad's story, and I swore I would never do the same thing.
I know what hockey players are. I know what this world does to the women in it.
Alexander Thorne is my brother's teammate and co-captain and the absolute last person I should be thinking about.
And yet? I'm going to ask him anyway.