Page 17 of Delayed Offsides

The nerve of her, right? So rude.

Look at me sitting on the bed in the hotel room. I’m pathetic. Why a girl is messing so badly with my head is infuriating. Isn’t the girl supposed to be the one going crazy because he didn’t call?

“What are you doing, pussy?” Remy asks beside me and kicks the bed.

My body rocks to the side, but I don’t even look up. Don’t want to. I don’t because I know who’s giving me shit. Remy. Always fuckin’ Remy. “Nothing.”

Listen, I love that beasty motherfucker like a brother, okay—more than my own brother—but I’m not in the mood today.

“You’re staring at your damn phone.” Remy groans, his voice louder than it needs to be in the small room. “Again.”

“No,” I growl. “I’m not.”

Well, I am. And then my phone is ripped from my hands and now being used as a hockey puck between Remy and Shelby in our hotel room. Jerks.

Ignoring them and hoping those motherfuckers don’t break it, I pretend to watch highlights from the Rangers game last night. Trying to act like I don’t care they have my phone.

I’d like to think I’m convincing.

Why am I staring at my phone?

Because Callie won’t answer me. Fifteen fucking text messages and nothing. I’m having an emotional breakdown because I’ve finally sprouted a vagina. That’s all there is to it.

She might be working, but why not at least answer me? Is that too much to ask of her?

Apparently so.

I understand leaving in the middle of the night. That walk of shame we’ve all had to make at one time or another. Hey, I get it, and also, the wanting to avoid the conversation the next day. But not with Callie. It’sneverlike that with us.

And knowing me, I would have gone to her apartment the next morning to ask what the fuck’s up, but I left for Florida that afternoon and won’t be back until Tuesday.

“Shit.” Remy groans, handing me my phone. I glance at it. Broken screen again. “Sorry, man.”

“You motherfuckers.” I toss it down on the mattress and slide my eyes to his. “That’s my third one in four months.” I stare down at my shattered lifeline to Callie. Assholes. Lying back, I stare at the ceiling.

Remy stands beside the bed, hovering over me. I flop my hand over my face, protecting myself in case he decides to spit on me. He’s done it before. Instead, he smacks my leg with his open hand. “Let’s go down to the bar.”

I jump up and reach for my wallet on the nightstand. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

When we walk outside, Remy throws his massive shoulder into Mase and Ryan’s door. “Bar, dudes!”

Usually I room with Mase. This year they’ve fucked the rooms up every time, and I’m stuck with Remy because he doesn’t get along with any of the other players. Remember when I said I’m not superstitious? Well, things like changing who I room with irritate me. But still, not superstitious. I just like routine.

We lean against the wall waiting for them to answer. Remy glances at me and then his phone, that’s not broken. He smirks. I feel like kicking it out of his hands. “Waitin’ for Pratt to call you?”

Scowling at him, I rip his phone from his hands and chuck it down the hall.

In the next second, Ryan opens the door, head half shaved, and grins. “Meet ya down there. Mase is in the shower.” And then he’s busting up laughing.

Remy and I stare at him.

Why Mase being in the shower is funny to him doesn’t make a lot of sense to us, but nothing Ryan does makes sense to me. He’s a twenty-year-old kid from Orono, Ontario, with a wicked slap shot, but he’s fuckin’ dumb. I know you should never say that about someone, but it’s a proven fact that redheads have fewer brain cells. And by proven, I mean proven by me. Don’t believe me? Just wait until you have a conversation with Ryan. He also has three restraining orders against women. He apparently never got that memo that said youneverever take them back to your place. Told you he’s missing brain cells. I have so much work do to with him.

Remy groans and starts walking down the hall to retrieve his phone. I follow.

Downstairs, Remy and I find a table near the back, secluded behind a pillar to block the sight of us from the entrance. Lesson one being a sports figure. Hide yourself when in bars. Choose the table with the least amount of light and preferably with a clear exit.

About ten minutes later and halfway through my first of many beers, Ryan approaches the table. He’s got splatters of blood on his white shirt. I don’t really care as to why he has blood on his shirt. At all. It’s the least of my worries tonight. Curious, sure, but I don’t care.

---