12. So Much For Professionalism #2
“They’re usually my thing, but I came here”—she turns her head to the side, whispering—“on a secret mission.”
I humor her. “A secret mission, huh?”
“Yuh-huh. I’m undercover.” She opens the pocket of her dress so she can lift up the corner of a small notepad. “For my first article.”
She’s here for an article. Her job. It was stupid to think she was here solely for me, right?
“And what have you concluded from your findings?”
She chews on her next set of unspoken words, as if she can’t decide between compromising the integrity of her work or answering my question.
She scrunches her nose up in contemplation.
“Well, I went into the night believing that all hockey players are liars, cheats, and the scum of the earth, but my findings weren’t… conclusive.”
I don’t blame her. The hockey player species has an infamous reputation for a reason. Unfortunately, Buford is a shining example of why the general public has this preconceived notion about us.
Lake shuffles the tiniest bit closer to me. She tips her head up to look at me, eyes bleary from drinking, cheeks pinker than the fleshy innards of a grapefruit in spring. She always has a built-in glow about her, but right now, she’s shining so bright that she could blot out the moon.
I nearly buckle under the intensity of her stare, a kaleidoscope of butterflies wreaking havoc in the osseous cage of my ribs—flapping, insistent on migrating up my esophagus and pouring from my lips.
“What do you mean?”
She gently touches my forearm, as if she can’t trust herself not to act on her inhibitions.
“Some hockey players are kind, caring, patient. There’s this one who never cares about my messes, even though I’m in a permanent state of disarray.
He’s everything I want to be, and everything people should be. ”
My stomach pitches. “Lake…”
That featherlight touch mutates into something urgent and hungry, and her irises darken to a shade of stygian that I’ve never seen before.
She’s feeding me every emotion that’s been stifled beneath casual pleasantries.
“Please tell me you want this. I just need to hear you say it. I need to know that it’s not a figment of my imagination. ”
I don’t think I can do this anymore. I can’t pretend simply being around her isn’t destroying me. She practically yanked the pin out of a metaphorical grenade and just threw it straight at me.
I’ve gone my whole life playing it safe. I don’t want to be that person anymore.
I grab Lake by the waist roughly before pulling her flush against my front, loving the feel of her soft curves against the hard planes of my muscles, tabbing a mental note at how flimsy the material of her dress is.
Easily rippable. Possibly expensive, but not enough that I can’t afford to replace it.
And then I say it—ten measly words that change the entire trajectory of our relationship. Words not supplemented by liquid courage. The beast inside of me is tired of domestication. It yearns for blood in its gums, meat between its teeth.
“Fuck, you have no idea how badly I want you.”
Lake is looking at me in complete shock.
Adrenaline sinks its greedy maw into my brainstem, my halcyon dream shattered by inconvenient consciousness. Broken pieces floating in zero gravity, drifting far away from one another like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle.
I have no idea what Lake is going to say. A part of me thinks that she didn’t expect me to reciprocate her feelings. When her lips pop open in the framework of a response, I feel a tug on my arm that’s too rough to be her doing, and I’m suddenly being jerked sideways by an unknown force.
“There you guys are. You’re gonna miss Truth or Dare,” Foster says with absolutely no ability to read the room.
Legs burning like we’re all being hunted by some pissed-off predator in the mood for hors d’oeuvres, the three of us bob and weave through the horde, eventually breaching the other side where some of my teammates occupy an L-shaped couch.
Gulp. This is either a poorly disguised intervention or an initiation. Neither of which I consented to.
“Oh, I don’t think Lake really wants to—”
She silences my disquietude, practically biting my head off for being so rude. “I love Truth or Dare. This will be a great way to get to know everyone since we’ll be working together for the rest of the semester.”
Is it selfish if I don’t want to share her with my teammates? I’m the protective type, sure, but I’ve never been territorial. What’s happening to me?
Foster—who is going at the top of my hit list—deposits us in the group with a dopey smile. “Sit, sit! We’re just getting started.”
Merit and Crew are snuggled up on the sofa, Staten is sitting on Knox’s lap with her hands linked around his neck, Irelyn is occupying the seat closest to Harlan, and the rest of us single folk are scattered around like a discarded afterthought.
I know Merit, Staten, and Irelyn won’t tolerate any bullshit from the guys, which makes me feel a little bit better at how this night will transpire.
“Girls, I’d like you to meet Lake,” I introduce, gesturing to the beautiful blonde at my side. “She’s the one who’s going—”
“To help with the articles!” Merit squeals, jumping up from the couch and initiating a tag-along of huggers as they all bring her into a group embrace. I had a modicum of hesitation about whether they’d accept her or not, but it’s impossible not to like Lake.
Poor Lake is crushed beneath delicate arms as they all coo around her, Merit glaring at me momentarily for withholding my new friend from them for this long. I haven’t been around Irelyn as much, Staten is on the quieter side, but Merit—she’s a force to be reckoned with.
“Oh my God, you’re gorgeous. And this dress—I love your style,” Staten gushes, holding Lake’s arm up and having her do a little spin to show off the stunning number. “Sutton, you’re a lucky man.”
Pride thrives in my chest. I’m not a poet, but I could dedicate an entire library to every thought and feeling I’ve experienced since meeting Lake Capitano.
An ode to her beauty, a recollection of my favorite memories, every complimentary adjective in the dictionary.
All contained in leather-bound books with flaxen, dog-eared pages that hold little fragments of her soul.
“You should hang out with us. Sometimes the girls and I head to brunch on the weekend at this cute little place downtown and then go shopping at the local businesses,” Merit tells her, to which Lake nods enthusiastically, whipping her phone out so they can all exchange details.
After about five minutes of uninterrupted girl talk, Foster finally gets everyone to return to their unofficial seats. There’s no space on the couch, so Lake and I opt for a spot on the floor, though we both inadvertently leave a sliver of room between our bodies.
I want to hold her. I want to dote on her like a loving…situationship? But everything is still so unresolved, and I don’t need to give my teammates ammunition to make kissy noises behind our backs.
I’m sorry, I mouth silently, to which she only shakes her head.
“Everyone’s keeping their clothes on tonight, right, Knox?” Crew grumbles, his arm draped over the back of his girl’s shoulders.
Knox salutes. “Anything you say, boss.”
There’s no getting out of this. My teammates have officially cockblocked me. Maybe I’ll forgive them in the distant future, but right now, I’m picturing myself kicklining into every one of their ball sacks.
Anxiety kicks off a ripple effect, tightening the knot in my stomach. My heart is doing one hundred in a residential zone, vertigo is prodding at my withering self-composure, and there’s no saliva in the bed of my desert-dry mouth.
Foster lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, who wants to go first?”