Page 13 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
It’s not.
Exasperated, hot air puffs out my nostrils. “Can you just get to the proposal already?”
Thankfully, without having to endure whatever witchcraft entranced me in my moment of weakness, Gage acquiesces with an apathetic shrug. “You were at the rink for a reason that day, right? I’m guessing you have a sibling who plays hockey? Or skates?”
“Brother. Hockey.”
“Does he want to go pro?” he inquires.
I wish I could answer him. But the truth is, I don’t know. Teague’s never told me. Or I haven’taskedhim. I’m so focused on getting him from point A to point B that I don’t even spend the time in between talking to him. Everything else in my life consumes me so much that I don’t remember the last time I hung out with him…just to hang out with him.
“Yeah, maybe,” I lie.
Either I’m great at compartmentalizing or Gage does, in fact, only have one brain cell, because he doesn’t pick up on my dejection. I scratch my fingernail against the chipped wood of the table as shame wiggles its way beneath my skin and burrows into my bone marrow.
“I don’t know if you know this, Spitfire, but I’m aprofessionalhockey player. Professional with a capitalP. I could totally help your little scoundrel work on his hockey skills. Maybe take him under my wing if I’m feeling generous. Maybe even shape him into one of the greatest players the NHL has ever seen,” he proposes, prodding the tip of his incisor with his tongue. “And then the crowd will be like, ‘Ahh, Gage. You’re my hero. You’re so talented and insanely hot. And you’re good with kids!’ And I’ll be like, ‘No need to thank me, half-naked ladies. I’m just doing my job.’”
I throw up in my mouth a little. “Okay, first off, that’s themost terrifying imagery to ever exist. Second off, why do you call me Spitfire?”
A half-cocked, arrogant grin winds his lips upward. “You didn’t tell me your name,” he points out.
“Maybe I didn’t want you to know my name,” I shoot back, resisting him with equal amounts of infuriating egotism. I can feel it sear the previous shame coursing through my veins, eating away at my last remnants of humility and reducing them to nothing but ash.
“You do know what Google is, right?”
Shit.
Just swallow your pride, Cali. Pray you don’t choke on it.
“It’s Cali.”
Gage lowers his brows, studies me, and seems to do some kind of full-body scan with his eyes. “That makes sense,” he eventually comments.
I chew on the tip of my straw to relieve what I can only assume is some feverish ailment that’s attacked my vulnerable body. It’s the only conceivable explanation as to why I’m not remotely feeling any violence toward Gage. “What makes sense?”
He tears a chocolate chunk off one of my cookies, and my gaze gravitates to the callouses on his large hands, the contrasting slenderness of his fingers, and the goddamn valley of veins snaking up his equally impressive forearms. For a split second, flashes overrun my mind—flashes of his hand bruising my throat, flashes of his hard body pressing me against a wall, flashes of him grinding his heavy cock into my thigh as he ushers my tongue into his mouth. And the worst part of it all is that the flashes or premonitions or whatever they are don’t evoke feelings of disgust within me.
The opposite, in fact.
That sardonic tone of his bleeds into full-throttle flirtation. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he says, staring at me through his long, thick lashes, all while his fingers bring the melted chocolate to his lips and his tongue flicks out to lick the pads.
Realistically, I know he just stuck his fingers in his mouth instead of wiping them with a napkin because he’s disgusting. Imaginatively, he was tongue-fucking his fingers in slow motion as a breeze came out of nowhere and blew his luscious hair back.
My heart begins to thrash in my chest, the lower half of me swelling with a warmth that usually only presents itself in the presence of Henry Cavill films or a high-pressure shower head. I squeeze my legs together to dull the ache between my thighs, but now I’m self-consciously wondering if Gage can detect how flustered I am. Sweaty? Check. Darting eyes? Check. Might’ve just soiled my panties? AGH.
What is wrong with me? I hate him. I hate his cockiness and his entitlement. I hate his… his body! His totally ugly, not-at-all-fit body.
I can hear him talking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. It’s like I’m trapped in lusty limbo, and I’m about to get dragged into the underworld by the claws of my sex-starved subconscious.
“—a trade. Hockey lessons in return for dance lessons,” he finishes.
Disjointed, I blink a few times to right my wobbling brain, my mouth filling with an influx of saliva. “But you don’t really want me toteachyou how to dance…right?”
“Right. Just…like…teach me some flexibility exercises. Help me strengthen my hip, and I’ll help your brother hone his hockey skills. If you get me playing in three months, I’ll make your brother the best player in the minor league.”
It’s obvious what I have to do. Yeah, three months is a bit of a long time, but I’d do anything for my brother, even if that meansmaking a deal with the devil. And, I mean, Teague could definitely benefit from some hockey lessons. It’s obvious he loves it so much. I saw how upset he was after those nose-picking nimrods teased him for not being good enough. I want him to be able to prove them wrong—to show them not to underestimate an underdog. I certainly can’t help him, and commercial lessons will burn another hole in my already-scorched wallet.
As much as Gage’s cockiness irks me, he has a right to be arrogant. He’s a famous NHL player, which means he’s a talented hockey player. And I bet Teague’s teammates aren’t getting one-on-one lessons with a Riverside Reaper.
