Chapter 7
MAC
The puck comes my way and I snag it, dekeing around two Guelph players.
I make a break for their net. This whole game I’ve played like shit.
Every time I had the puck, I fumbled the pass.
If I can just score a goal or an assist, I’ll make up for some of the shitty passes that might lose us this game.
I line up the shot, but before I can take it, I trip over air and sprawl across the ice.
Guelph reclaims the puck as I scramble to my feet, the rest of my team chasing after them. And instead of me scoring a goal and breaking my streak of bad luck, Guelph scores one of their own, giving them a two-goal lead. All because I’ve forgotten how to play hockey.
“You okay, man?” Lovett asks as we take the bench.
“Fucking embarrassing is what I am,” I grouse.
Chase is out there making great passes, and I’m falling over my own thoughts.
“It’s all right. We all have bad games.” He taps his stick against the boards.
“Yeah.” What else can I say? It’s not a bad game, it’s a bad season.
If I keep it up, all my hopes and dreams will be flushed down the toilet along with my pride.
And my girlfriend is here, watching me shit the bed.
Fake girlfriend. Whether it goes beyond the title is irrelevant.
Everyone outside of our friend group believes the lie.
We lose the game. And it feels like my fault.
It doesn’t matter how many of my teammates tell me they were on the ice too when Guelph scored, if I hadn’t fumbled the puck, if I hadn’t tripped, hell, if I’d been on the bench, Guelph wouldn’t have scored.
At least the scouts weren’t here tonight to watch me fuck my team over.
The mood in the locker room is somber post-game, and Coach comes in and gives us one of his you can play cleaner, you’re a better team than this, and we’ll turn this around next week when we play London speeches.
Gage decides we need to have people over so we can drown our sorrows in bad decisions and booze. I’m not in much of a party mood, but anything is better than stewing in my own anxiety for the rest of the night.
Which is how we end up sitting in our living room, playing a drinking game. It’s not the worst since Fee is sitting next to me, smelling fantastic, wearing a Tilton hockey shirt.
Someone came up with a brilliant idea to play I Drink and I Know Things, which always leads to hangovers for Gage, because he’s usually terrible at random trivia.
It’s currently Chase’s turn.
I lean in close to Fee, inhaling her fruity shampoo as I whisper, “He’ll pull out a hockey stat.”
She smirks. “No doubt.”
“I drink and I know the player who holds the single game point record in the pro league,” Chase says.
Every guy and half the girls shout out the answer at the same time.
“It’s my turn. I got that first,” Gage declares.
Everyone lets him have it since he rarely wins a round. Plus, he’s pretty hammered and there’s a solid chance he’ll pass out soon, while sitting in the lounge chair holding a mostly full beer.
“I drink and I know the number of nerve endings in the clitoris!” Gage shouts.
“Ten thousand two hundred eighty-one!” Cammie and Chase both shout the number in unison.
“Nerve fibers, though,” Fee adds. “Nerve endings are over eight thousand.”
“With a range of nine thousand eight hundred to just over eleven thousand, depending on the clit,” Enid chimes in.
Cammie, Enid, and Fee all hop to their feet, converging in the center of the room, and high-five before dropping back into their chairs.
Gage nods his approval. “Of course you all know the answer to this.”
“I guess that’s why it’s called the hot button,” I whisper to Fee when she returns to the couch and drops down beside me. I’ve never been more grateful for the shotty springs that force her to slide closer.
She pats my thigh. “And the reason we like it when that particular body part gets a lot of attention from our partner.”
Is that a hint? Am I reading into things? Would Fee want me to pay special attention to her sensitive, sweet parts? I wet my bottom lip, mouth suddenly dry at the image of Fee, lying on my bed, me stretched out beside her, hand slipping into the waistband of her jeans.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, then bounces back up.
We’re both busy staring at each other, so we miss the next question and have to drink.
“I need a refill.” Chase holds up his empty beer.
“I need a bathroom break,” Fee announces.
I stand and hold out a hand, helping her to her feet, mostly just so I have a reason to touch her. “Want me to grab you something to drink?”
“Water would be smart.” She winks.
“On it.”
Chase and I pass a group of girls, one of whom asked me last week if I had a date to the hockey gala, on the way to the kitchen.
“Are they even really together?” one girl asks in a not-quite whisper.
“I’ve never seen him kiss her,” another says.
“And she’s not even wearing his hoodie.”
“People get banned from parties over his hoodies,” the first girl adds.
I’m irritated that this is a conversation in my own freaking house, and that people are questioning the legitimacy of my relationship with Fee. Does everyone think we’re as fake as we’re supposed to be?
“Give her your hoodie and people will stop asking questions,” Chase mutters once we’re in the kitchen.
I glance at our friends. Cammie is wearing one of Chase’s hoodies; it’s more like a dress on her, though. “Do you think she’ll want to wear it?”
Chase shrugs. “Cammie is forever stealing my T-shirts to sleep in.”
“Yeah, but you two live together, and you’re obsessed with each other,” I remind him.
He arches a brow. “Which makes us a good example of what to do, right?”
He has a point.
When I return to the living room with a bottle of sparkling lemon water for Fee, I spot her across the room, being chatted up by a guy I don’t know.
I make a beeline for her and slip an arm around her waist, pulling her possessively into my side. “Hey, sweetheart, I was looking for you. Got your water.”
She stiffens for a moment, but quickly recovers and smiles up at me. “Thanks, babe.”
I barely resist the urge to kiss the end of her nose. Instead, I turn back to the guy who was trying to make a move on my girl and give him a chin tip. “How’s it going?”
“Uh, good. Nice party.” He nods a few times and shoves his hands in his pockets, then pulls them back out, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“Thanks. How do you and Fee know each other?”
“We have a class together,” he explains.
“Oh yeah? Which?”
“Social psych,” he says.
“You have that Tuesday and Thursday, right?” I may or may not have her entire schedule memorized.
“Yeah, it’s my afternoon class.” She seems surprised that I know this.
“Cool.” I don’t have a class then, so maybe it’s time I start walking my girlfriend to that particular lecture.
“I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday, then,” the guy says.
“Yeah, for sure.”
“See you then,” I reply.
He skirts around us and heads for the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck as he goes.
“That guy likes you,” I mutter darkly.
“That guy wants to borrow my notes because he showed up twenty minutes late on Thursday.”
“And he likes you,” I add.
“You’re doing a great job of being a territorial boyfriend,” Fee observes wryly.
“Good.” I pull my hoodie over my head. “Maybe you should wear this.”
She arches an amused eyebrow. “But will I be banned from future parties if I accept it?”
“As my girlfriend, you’re allowed to wear my hoodies, without penalty,” I explain, sort of tongue in cheek. But not really.
“Seems like a reasonable rule.” Fee hands me her water and pulls my hoodie over her head.
It’s huge on her, the hem six inches shy of her knees, and the sleeves cover her hands.
She pulls the neck up and inhales. “It smells good,” she murmurs then props her fists on her hips and smiles cheekily. “How do I look?”
I give her a slow once-over, not even trying to hide my appreciation. “Like you’re mine.” And I fucking love it.
“Oof.” She puts her hand over my eyes. “Ease up with the smolder, Mac.”
“Not even a little sorry.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and guide her back to the living room.
Our friends have given up on the drinking game, which isn’t a bad thing, considering Gage’s now passed out state.
However, in the time Fee and I have been gone, our seats have been stolen.
The only spot left is in the middle of the couch, with Enid on one end and Brody on the other.
Why those two are still circling each other after all these years is beyond me.
Chase gives me an approving eyebrow.
I take the middle cushion, and Fee lets me pull her into my lap. I revel in the closeness, loving the way she snuggles right into me and her head tucks perfectly under my chin. I wrap my arms around her and whisper, “You comfortable here?”
“Immensely. You’re like my own personal furnace,” she replies.
I press my lips to her hair and breathe her in while our friends place bets on how long Gage will sleep.
And the whole time, I keep my arms wrapped around Fee.
Real or not, she feels right in my arms. I haven’t dated anyone seriously since high school.
I was never into hookups the way Gage is, or the way Chase was at the beginning of his first year, sleeping with a new girl every week until he fell in love with Cammie.
I need an emotional connection with someone before the physical stuff makes sense. Back in high school I really liked a girl named Brianna, but she only wanted to be friends. Which is often the case for me. I end up friend-zoned because it takes longer for the chemistry to kick in.
Ever since I made the agreement with Fee, it’s been building steadily. I’m obsessed with how soft her lips look, and how much I’d like to feel them on mine.
Brody elbows my arm.
I glance at him. “What’s up?”
“Your girlfriend’s asleep.”
I glance down at Fee, curled up in my lap, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in regular intervals.
It’s late, and I don’t want to wake her, so I slide my arm under her legs, secure her in my arms, and carry her upstairs to my bedroom.
She must have been exhausted because she doesn’t rouse when I lay her in my bed and pull the covers over her.
I fight the desire to kiss her forehead and force myself to step back. “Ah, shit.” I run a hand through my hair and grip the back of my neck.
She looks perfect lying in my bed. And I desperately want to climb in next to her and cuddle her all night.
Which is how I know I’m totally, unequivocally fucked.