Page 11 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“Yuh-huh. All you have to do is move your feet in time with the music. It’s nothing compared to hockey. Hockey requires discipline, strength, coordination.”
“Seriously? You know dancers are just as disciplined, strong, and coordinated as hockey players, right?
I blow air out of my cheeks. “You can’t compare dancers and hockey players. They’re simply not on the same playing field.”
“Wow. That’s—you know what? I don’t have time to tell you how fucking wrong you are, and I definitely don’t have time to give you private dance lessons.”
How have I gotten on her nervesagain? I was just beinghonest. Jesus fuck. Pulling teeth would be easier than getting this chick to set down her pitchfork for one second.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” she snaps, knotting the strap of her dance bag in her hand—probably in some valiant effort to keep from punching me in the face.
As indignant and stubborn as I want to be, I know that butting heads with her isn’t going to get me anywhere. So I shed that strong-man guise of mine as desperation unfurls between the tight spaces in my ribs. I don’t grab her wrist or her arm when she shoulders past me, but I don’t need to, because what I say next carries enough ammunition to pique her interest.
“What if I offer you something in return?”
That reels her attention instantly, and for the first time during our entire conversation, she fails to rein in the curiosity cracking across her expression.
I’m going to admit that it never crossed my mind to just hire a personal trainer or dance instructor to help me with my hip. And now, standing in front of the one girl I know I won’t be able to dislodge from my mind, I don’t want to resort to those options. I wantherto help me.
Call me a masochist, but I like that she’s the first girl to ever challenge me—to call me out on my bullshit. I’m surrounded by yes men all the time. It’s a breath of fresh air to meet someone uninfluenced by the media’s portrayal of me.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Just hear me out. I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but I think we can help each other. Let me plead my case. We can even do it over dinner if it makes you more comfortable. There’s a burger joint just a few blocks from here.”
“You’re seriously asking me to dinner? After I rammed into your car?”
“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” I mutter, mentally rifling through all the possibilities of what I could offerthe girl who wants nothing to do with me. I’d probably be more cognizant if it weren’t for the nerves jackhammering into my weakly beating heart.
Spitfire—since Istilldon’t know her name—is looking at me like I just proposed we break into the Pentagon, her brows furrowed, and her crimson-tinted mouth gnarled into a frown.
So I continue, attempting to dredge up some of my good ol’ bachelor charm that usually results in bras being thrown at my face. “It’s half past eight. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you haven’t had dinner yet.”
As if on cue, her stomach lets loose an audible growl, but she doesn’t say anything.
Fishing blindly into my short’s pocket, I pull out my wallet and slide out my black card, waving it in front of her. Even though she keeps her lips sealed, her wide-eyed gawking betrays her.
“I’ll pay.”
Two words that usually make any girl’s pussy leak like Niagara Falls. In fact, it’s common courtesy for said girl to fling her arms around me and praise me with thanks. Though I’d be lucky to receive a grunt of acknowledgment from her.
Her pink-tipped tongue swipes along her bottom lip as if she can taste the possible residue of fast-food grease there, and it takes her a full minute to ponder my offer, eventually relenting with a—surprise, surprise—grunt of acknowledgement.
“Just because I’m going with you doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she grumbles, tightening her bag’s strap on her shoulder, a fallen tress of sunset hair unraveling over her temple.
A strange sensation swoops in my gut, akin to what I think butterflies might feel like if I’d ever experienced them before. Or maybe it’s my gut telling me that this is a bad idea. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Spitfire.”
5
MY MILKSHAKE BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD
CALISTA
Islurp on my well-earned vanilla milkshake, purposefully cranking up the noisiness as Gage stares at me from across the table. A double cheeseburger, two large fries, a twenty-piece box of chicken nuggets, and a stack of chocolate chip cookies all sit in front of me, which isn’t my usual go-to dinner after class, but hey, the idiot was paying.
Even though I doubt I’d want anything Gage has to offer me, I couldn’t say no to a free meal. I can’t believe he foundmystudio and wantsmyhelp. None of this feels real. And no, not because he’s some “world-famous” hockey player, but because I was expecting the next time I saw him to be from behind a glass partition in prison.
I’m surprised he didn’t sue me—and even more surprised that now he’s trying to be buddy-buddy with me.
I pluck a fry from my basket and swirl it around in the frothy layer of my shake before popping it in my mouth. “Why are you staring at me?”
