11. Lucas
Chapter eleven
Lucas
D isliking Blaine right off the bat when he joined the team was probably wrong of me. I never took the chance to get to know him, but in the last few hours, I’ve learned more about Blaine Mitchell than I have in the last three years.
I’m pretty sure he grew up opposite to how I did. Blaine spent his summers with his grandma growing up. He didn’t say it, but I’m assuming he was always with her to avoid his parent’s divorce.
When he brought up his parents, he was short. He changed the topic quickly anytime he mentioned his mom or dad. All I’ve known is that his mom has money and seemingly gives him whatever he wants. I’m not going to pry, but it seems like there is a lot more than he lets on behind those purse strings.
He’s also a damn good cook, which I frankly could use some of his skills. I scored points with Laur by adding broccolini to our meal, but other than cutting shit up and following Blaine’s direction, I barely did anything.
While we were in the kitchen, I told him a little bit about my summers here with my family and how we always got Pinto’s just down the street at least twice every trip. Blaine ordered tacos from Pinto’s, which I mentioned was my favorite spot.
“Thanks again for the tacos, Blaine.” I hand him a plate before sitting down next to Laur.
“No problem,” Blaine responds, snagging the chair on the other side of Laur .
“What’s the plan for tonight?” Ryder asks with his mouth completely full.
“You all are cleaning up that kitchen after we eat,” Laur declares, giving Ryder a stern look.
“Right.” Ryder boyishly clears his throat, accepting there is no arguing with Laur. “But after that? We’ve only got one night left after today.”
“We never got any shooting practice in with Luc’s old equipment,” Keith mentions.
Thank God . The game calls to me like the tide under a full moon anytime I take a few days off.
“We should have just done that instead of the stupid cooking thing,” Tyler mumbles under this breath.
“Stop being a sore loser, Ty,” Libby teases, sticking her tongue out at him.
The damn kitchen takes over an hour to clean between the six of us, solidifying my lack of enthusiasm to do another cooking competition any time soon. We sluggishly wash pots and pans, grunting with discontent.
A loud clash echoes throughout the house as several clean pots and utensils fall to the grease riddled floor.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tyler slams his first on the counter.
“Not a big deal,” Keith assures him with a pat on the back. “We’ll just give these ones an extra wash.”
“Great. Just what I want to do on vacation, wash more dishes.” Tyler’s nostrils flare. A flash of fury clouds his eyes as if he’s about to punch something. Or someone.
Before the cloud turns into a storm, I intervene, “Tyler, go walk it off.”
“Whatever you say, Captain.” Tyler gives me a mocking salute and walks straight out the open doors to the patio.
What the hell’s gotten into him? He’s been in a mood all day damn.
As my hands wrap around my old hockey stick, a much-needed calm relief washes over me. Hockey has been my escape my entire life. It’s been the one thing I can always rely on to clear my head and set me straight. The pressure of this year might be starting to change that, but not today.
A centering air fills my lungs. On the exhale, my blade scrapes the concrete and connects with the ball, sending it to the back of the net before Keith can move an inch. Keith blocks my next two shots, but my final six shots mimic the first. Sweet victory!
“Damn it,” Keith mutters under his breath.
“Nice, Captain Hotshot.” Laur beams at me from across the driveaway. A cocky smile starts to dance across my face, but I bite my bottom lip to keep it at bay and remain humble.
“Blaine, you’re up. King, you’re on deck,” I call as I saunter toward Laur and the girls.
“I bet you fifty bucks Ryder sinks every puck,” Sydney not so subtly whispers to Libby.
“Technically, it’s a ball not a puck, Syd,” Libby corrects her friend. In boxes with plenty of equipment from my teenage years playing with my cousins, I found some old street hockey balls perfect for shooting around on the driveway.
“Whatever, Lib,” Sydney snaps back. The drama in her eyeroll could rival the sassiest of Bren’s signature looks—I’m sure of it. “Are you taking the bet or not?”
“Fine.” Libby extends her hand to Sydney, and they shake on their bet.
“Didn’t know you were placing bets on my team,” I comment, curious how many times over this trip a bet has been placed .
Sydney blushes, and Libby lets out a nervous laugh, “This is the first one we’ve made all summer, I swear!”
“We’ve got to keep it interesting somehow,” Sydney mumbles, earning a few giggles from Bren and Laur.
“Bored?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at Laur.
“With you? Never,” Laur responds, moving next to my side and interlacing her finger with mine. “But if I was a betting woman, I would put all my money on you, Lucas.”
“Get a room,” Bren teases. Sydney makes an audible gagging noise of disgust.
In a low growl, I whisper into Laur’s ear, “Oh we will definitely be getting a room later.”
My sultry comment earns me a playful hit to the chest as Laur’s cheeks turn a deep scarlet. Slowly pulling her into me, I plant a delicate kiss on her neck and wrap my arms tightly around her body. My only desire is to be with her however I can be.
My eyes instinctively close as I inhale Laur’s sweet perfume, losing myself in the comfort of being with her. Hockey is my first love and my first escape, but just being around Laur challenges its place—always pushing for a tie instead of settling for being a close second.
“Holy shit.” Laur’s voice pulls me out of my trance.
“I should have put my money on your boyfriend, Libby,” Sydney huffs in surprise.
“Shut up, Syd. He’s not my boyfriend,” Libby snorts, folding her arms.
While I daydreamed, Blaine Mitchell made eight shots in a row. He looks like the shots didn’t even faze him. Keith is a damn good goalie—one of the top ranked in NCAA Division I ice hockey. My jaw drops as Blaine snipes his last shot.
“Yeah, definitely should have bet on Libby’s boyfriend,” Sydney stutters, stunned at what just happened.
“B MAN! You buried that beauty. Fucking nice!” Ryder claps Blaine on the back in congratulations .
“Don’t call me that,” Blaine snaps, disgust in his voice.
He clenches his fist, ready to take off Ryder’s head.
What the fuck . I guess Blaine is back to his normal douchebag antics.
As quickly as possible, I start to move to intervene and protect Ryder from being decked in his pretty face.
But something stops me in my tracks. Blaine’s shoulders subtly rising and falling slowly like he is trying to calm himself down.
Slowly shaking his head as if to clear it, Blaine sighs loudly and mutters, “Sorry, King.” Blaine takes a sharp inhale again before continuing “Just. Don’t call me that. Capiche ?”
My eyes widen in disbelief. Blaine kept his cool somehow. Maybe he really is turning over a new, unexpected leaf.
Seemingly unfazed by Blaine’s reaction, Ryder gives a slight nod. “Yeah, Mitch, capiche .”
Blaine, apparently now going by Mitch, pats Ryder on the back. “Thanks. You’re up, Prodigy. Show us what you’re made of.”
Chuckling, Ryder says, “Mitch, I won’t lie to you. I’m a little rusty on the street so don’t get your hopes up too high.”
He weeds through the old hockey sticks. All the sticks are ancient and shitty, but he tests his grip on each one before settling on one and standing in front of the net.
After tapping the bottom of each shoe with the blade of the stick, Ryder turns to his left and spits on the ground then narrows his eyes at the goal.
Air fills my lungs as I hold my breath waiting for him to take his first shot.
He turns to spit to his right before sending the ball forward and burying it in the back of the net.
His next three shots follow suit, beautifully popping each one in.
Unfortunately, the rest don’t make it in.
“You’re a damn skilled tendy, Keith,” Ryder approaches the goalie to shake his hand unfazed his shots were deflected when most of the boys would be fuming. “A real ice guardian.”
“Some prodigy,” Tyler mutters only loud enough for me and Blaine to hear .
“Shake off your attitude, Barret. This is just for fun.” Blaine exhales in irritation.
“What was that, Mitchell? Trying to start shit with me?” Tyler demands, his jaw tightening as his body stiffens, fist clenching at his sides, readying himself for what comes next.
“It’s good, Barret,” Blaine steadily responds, taking a step back.
“Fuck you, Mitchell. Stop with your nice guy act. You aren’t fooling anyone, especially Libby,” Tyler spits out the last words, seething. “Just come at me already.”
Blaine’s distressed eyes meet mine as Tyler lunges forward, putting his entire weight behind his punch. Chaos ensues. It takes three guys to hold Tyler back. Sydney’s high-pitch screams echo around us, along with some extremely loud profanities from the others.
A few drops of blood stain the pavement, but it isn’t from Blaine.
“Got my lip real good, Barret.” Ryder barks out a laugh. His hand goes to his mouth. “Nice swing.”
Thunderous rage fills me as I realize Tyler, one of the contenders for alternate captain, just punched our newest star player in the face.
Fucking great.
“Fuck. I didn’t mean—”
Ryder cuts Tyler off.
“Nah, man, I stepped in. My fault.” Ryder pulls his hand away from his mouth. His lip gleams with the sheen of crimson blood. From the looks of it, it’s going to swell badly.
“I didn’t—” Tyler starts again, his shoulders sagging.
“Barret, next time, I’ll be swinging right back, even if it’s not meant for me,” Ryder jokes. “The season hasn’t started, so I can’t play this off as a sexy injury just yet.”
Tyler’s sorrowful eyes avoid my furious stare. “Fucking get him some ice before I decide you need some yourself, Barret.” Tyler scurries inside the second I bark out the order .
What is happening? Tyler might get into a mess or two with a girl, but he’s not someone who would punch someone on our team over something as trivial as being called out about his bad attitude.
And now, all the negative shit is impacting me too. Even if Tyler deserves to be reprimanded, threatening to punch one of my guys is very out of character for me, especially if it’s not someone who typically stirs up issues.
Everyone is acting like a bunch of assholes. This summer better not turn into one of those fucking soap operas my mother loves.