Page 10 of Blocked Score

“So, if someone walked up to him and …” I point the top of the bottle at Scarlett’s chest, making a swirling motion with my hand, “sprayed his shirt with mustard, he’s probably not the type to let it go?”

Her eyelids retract. “No, he’d probably be so pissed off he’d chase after them.”

I smirk. “And I take it he doesn’t look like the fast type?”

“No,” Scarlett answers, but then concern paints over the excitement that was on her face. “But you never know … some people are deceptively athletic.”

I laugh, and I don’t deny that it’s a cocky one. “I’m faster.”

“You’d really do that?” she asks, her chestnut eyes shining with a mixture of amusement, incredulity, and appreciation.

The answer to that question should really beno.

I’m going to be captain of the team next season. I’m already the responsible one among my teammates, and I should be working on being evenmoreresponsible, not less so.

I should be setting a good example, even if no one’s looking. Certainly not getting wrapped up in the kind of scheme that I’d chastise my best friend Rhys or my teammate Tuck McCoy, two of the more trouble-making guys on my team, for indulging in.

But it’s not August yet. We’re not even back on campus yet, let alone preparing for the next season. I’m not team captain yet.

Maybe I can allow myself some irresponsibility. Especially if the end result is helping Scarlett—and spending more time with her.

So, I nod. “Let’s do it.”

Moments later, the paid-for mustard is still in my hand as we walk out the sliding doors of the convenience store and set off in the direction of Vortex.

We strategize. She’s going to hide at the end of the block while I stroll past the bouncer, spray his shirt with mustard, then sprint away; if he chases me, she’s going to take the opportunity to sneak in, find her friend, and then meet me at the other end of the next block.

It’s totally absurd. I’ve known this girl for a grand total of less than three hours, and she’s already got me agreeing to things I’d normally never even consider.

It should worry me. But the only thing I’m concerned with is increasing that grand total of time I’ve spent with Scarlett—by a lot.

“Good luck,” Scarlett says with a giggling smile as she positions herself behind the outer wall of the building at the end of the block, waiting for her moment to rush into the club.

I shoot her a wink. “If the guy catches me and beats the shit out of me, I’m charging you for my medical bills.”

“Deal,” she says, the effort to hold back her laughter turning her cheeks a bright red.

Before I turn from her to complete my mission, I give my gaze permission to rake over her.

She’s got on a red dress that isn’t tight, but still clings close enough to show off the curve of her hip and the gentle swell of her breasts. Her dark hair is tied back in a ponytail, and pink lipstick makes her heart-shaped mouth pop.

If I let myself appreciate her any longer, I know that my hard-on will grow to the point it affects my running speed, so I shoot her another wink and set off toward my target.

As I get closer, I only grow more confident in my ability to outrun the bouncer. He’s big and scary-looking, for sure. But his body is built to stand in front of a door and make it really hard to get past. It wasn’t built to spring up and chase after one of the fastest players in college hockey.

I pop the lid of the mustard bottle casually, walking down the sidewalk perfectly inconspicuous.

Finally, he’s next to me as I stroll past. I point the nozzle at him and squeeze.

A jet of bright yellow mustard sprays out in an arc and lands in globs on the front of his black shirt.

I stand still to give him a moment to react. To give him a moment to make sure he sees who did it. Who to direct his anger at. Who to chase.

Rage flashes in his eyes, and I move my legs. I don’t run at a full sprint at first. I want him to think he has a chance at catching up to me, so he’ll be away from his post long enough for Scarlett to get inside.

I gradually pick up my pace as he stomps after me. The long line of people trying to get into the club are gawking at us. They’re surprised, and more than a few of them are obviously pleased at the unexpected entertainment as they’re stuck queueing up on a humid Chicago night.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s still charging, but he’s far enough behind me when I’m only running at a fraction of my top speed, only confirming that he doesn’t have a chance of catching up.

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