Chapter 2
I push open the door to the Grind Stone, the bell chiming overhead like it's announcing royalty.
This is my third time here, and I'm hoping the third time's the charm.
Last visit, Amber Hughes was nowhere to be seen, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed.
After all, what's the point of gracing this place with my presence if she's not here to witness it?
My eyes scan the cafe, landing on her immediately.
There she is.
Amber Hughes is behind the counter, hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing an apron that's seen better days.
For a split second, I'm transported back to high school, watching her stride down the hallway with her chin up, daring anyone to cross her.
She used to attack my confidence for arrogance, but she has the same nature as I do. Cocky. Arrogant. Confident.
I've got a mile-long mental file on her.
Straight-A student, president of three clubs.
Overachiever much?
Fist-fights solved all her problems.
Amateur. Just kidding. We have that in common.
Her mom was in and out of rehab.
Tragic, really.
Brother dealt drugs out of their garage.
Quite the family business.
Dated the captain of the debate team for a hot minute.
Poor bastard.
Cried during dissections in bio class but pretended it was allergies.
Weak stomach. Couldn't be me.
Sworn enemy of the school's mean girl clique.
As if she wouldn’t fit right in with them.
The list goes on. It's amazing how much dirt you can dig up when someone tackles you down a flight of stairs. Not that I needed to know anything about her.
I bet she's still telling everyone I'm the asshole in that story. Truth is, I overheard her in the hallway, ranting about her brother's latest fuck-up. Something about stolen prescriptions and a close call with the cops.
“Just shut up about it already,” I had said, more annoyed than angry. “You really want the whole school knowing your family's dirty laundry?”
Next thing I knew, her palm connected with my cheek.
The sound of the oohs in the hallway echoed alongside her slap.
I began to tell her she would regret that, but then her fists started connecting to my face.
I ran because she punched hard, and then we were both tumbling down the stairs.
I did my best to cushion her fall, taking the brunt of it.
When we landed at the bottom, all I could see was the pain in her eyes, raw and burning.
So when she scrambled up, fists raised for round two, I let her wail on me.
Figured if she needed a punching bag, better me than someone who'd hit back. Not many can say they've had the privilege of using Matthew Pearson as their personal stress relief.
She graduated high school a few weeks later, and that was that.
Until now.
I have to admit, I'm curious why she's slinging coffee instead of running a Fortune 500 company or arguing cases in court. The Amber I knew wouldn't be caught in a dead-end job like this. Then again, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
But hey, I'm not here to judge. I'm here to order a sandwich and protein shake and watch her squirm.
I saunter up to the counter, doing my best to look bored and disinterested. Like I haven't noticed her at all. As if anyone could miss my entrance.
“Welcome to The Grind Stone,” she says, voice clipped. “What can I get you?”
I study the menu board, taking my sweet time because I can. “Hmm. What do you recommend?”
She looks up at the menu. “We have the fuck-off shake and the never-come-back-here-again sandwich.”
I tilt my head at her. “Do you have the this-isn’t-high-school-anymore shake?”
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out. I will never forget the look in her eyes right now. Got her.
I continue, “What about the grow-the-fuck-up sandwich?”
She stares at me, her lips now pressed together.
I tap the counter, glancing around the place. “My regular.”
She scoffs. “The Asshole specialty?”
I look over my shoulder at her and stare.
She looks older now. Her face is much sharper and more refined.
There’s no softness anymore. She’s a woman who can hold her own.
And her eyes could kill. The way they are dark when I know they’re actually amber-brown.
And the intensity of her brows. God, I’m in for it, and I’m loving every fucking second of it.
She stares back and says, “I don’t know your regular order, asshole.”
I was thinking about where time has gone between us because it’s like no time has passed at all. I say, “Yeah, you do.”
She blinks, keeping her expression in check, her posture is straight, and the confidence she has would be scary if I were a pussy.
She snarks, “No, I don’t.”
“The turkey provolone sandwich with tomatoes, onions, and lettuce. The strawberry protein shake with extra protein.” I say it as fast as I can to piss her off.
She glances down at the Honey Badger logo on my shirt. That’s right, the honey badger don’t give a fu–
“Name?”
I chuckle.
She lifts a brow. “What? Like I know you?”
I lean in. “You know exactly who I am.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know who the hell you are actually.”
“You know, holding grudges isn’t a good look on you.”
“Asshole it is.”
“Don’t spit in my sandwich,” I warn, leaning over the counter.
She grits her teeth. I can practically hear them grinding. Music to my ears. She taps away on the screen in front of her as I watch her. Long black lashes, blushed cheeks, and amber eyes. They darken when she glances at me.
I remain leaning against the counter, drumming my fingers on the surface. Just loud enough to be annoying. It's a gift, really.
“That’ll be $20.75.”
I pull out my wallet, making a show of rifling through it. “You know, I thought you looked familiar.”
Her glare could melt steel. “That'll be $20.75. Sir." The 'sir' sounds like an insult. Impressive.
I hand her two twenty-dollar bills. “Keep the change. Maybe you can use it to buy some anger management classes.”
As I turn to get out of the ordering line and wait in the pickup line, I can feel her eyes burning holes in my back. I resist the urge to glance at her again.
When my order’s ready, she doesn’t call out my name. Instead, she walks up to me, personally handing me the protein shake and brown bag.
“Stop coming in here,” she demands, still gripping the bag.
I try to tug it from her, but she keeps her hold on it. I lean in and say, “Or what?”
“Or nothing, Matthew. Just don’t come in here when I’m working.”
She walks away, not waiting to hear my amazing comeback. “Hey,” I call out. She continues walking to the back, ignoring me.
I check if she's written anything on my cup this time. Part of me hopes she has. It's always nice to have a raging fan, but there’s nothing scribbled on the cup. Damn.
Walking out into the sunshine, I take a sip of my protein shake. It's not poisoned. It’s actually pretty good. I might have to make this a regular thing while she’s working.
I walk down the sidewalk, protein shake in one hand, brown bag in the other. Amber's face when I walked in? Fucking gold. She's still not over me.
I reach into the bag for my sandwich and find something that doesn't belong in it. Paper. I pull it out – the change I tipped her. All $19.25 of it.
“Cute,” I mutter, stuffing the bills back in my wallet. Girl's got balls, I'll give her that.
Back at my place, I unwrap the sandwich and take a massive bite. It's salty as hell. I snort, swallowing hard. “Real mature.”
I'm about to demolish the rest when I spot something. A little black speck between the lettuce and tomato. I pluck it out. A raisin. I check the rest of the sandwich. Clean. Just one single, solitary raisin.
“You've gotta be shitting me,” I say, but I'm grinning. Amber thinks she's clever? Game on.
I wolf down the rest of the sandwich, my mind already on hockey.
Coach has been up my ass lately, and I need to step it up if I want a shot at the NHL.
All this Grey and Maddie bullshit has officially affected my game on the ice, so I need to get my ass back on track, let him have her, and avoid another fight before I get kicked out of this ivy league school.
Then I’ll have no choice but to really beat Grey’s ass.
I’m not going to lie, ever since I’ve seen Amber, she’s become my number one distraction. I don’t care what Grey and Maddie are doing anymore because I have a new shiny object to fuck with.
I grab my notebook and start listing ideas on how I can improve in the rink.
1. Stop throwing punches on the ice
2. Hustle on the backcheck
3. Protect the puck in traffic
4. Find my wingers faster
5. Bury more shots
6. Build stamina for third period
7. Block more shots
8. Be louder on the ice
9. Quicken my release
10. Use my size to crush opponents
The next day, I’m staring at the list I made last night.
It's a lot, but I'm not some average Joe. I'm a fucking beast on the ice, and I need to up my game. Let’s be real, there’s a reason why Madison Wilder––daughter of NHL Coach Wilder––dated me. I know I have the skill, talent, and dedication. I’m hungry for this.
My phone buzzes. It’s my boy, Harvey.
“Pearson,” he says as I answer the phone call.
I scoff. “What's up?”
“Checking in. You good for practice today?”
I consider bullshitting him, then think better of it. I have a fucking Get Better list in front of me right now. Harvey has some sixth sense, I swear. I mutter, “Worried I'm not cutting it, man. I need to improve.”
“Look, Matt,” Harvey says, all serious. “You're a beast, but your two-way game's weak. You're leaving our D hanging when we lose possession. Gotta haul ass back and help out more on our end.”
I clench my jaw. He's right, damn it. “How do I fix it?”
“Let’s get lunch, and we can talk about it.”
“You're on,” I say. “I know just the place.”
I hang up, feeling fired up. I grab my gear bag and head out. Time to hit the gym. And then after that – I've got a raisin to return.