Page 21 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
I’m about to protest, but Gage uses all his strength to pull me into the side of his body, making me squeak in surprise. My cheek squishes into his shoulder, and even though I’m resisting, his ironclad grip has me immobilized. Stupid Gage and the six inches he has over me. Stupid Gage and his buff arms. Stupid Gage and the annoying way his lips twist into a self-satisfied grin.
“No worries, dude.”
Hackles rising, I harden my voice with a steel edge. “Gage…”
He pats me on my head, making my already mussed hair frizz up to new lengths. “Gonna take her out to her favorite Italian restaurant. You know…the one that has a live octopus tank. Heard the hosts check your bank account numbers before you can make a reservation since the food is so expensive. Authentic Italian and such.”
He’s talking to Dilbert like I’m not even here! And yes, I was doing the same thing, but this is—ugh!
Not only has Dilbert turned a flattering shade of scarlet, but he looks as uncomfortable as I feel.
Sweat stains his brow, and he shifts his weight between his skates. “Oh, that’s…”
Gage cuts him off, doing that hand privacy thing where he’s supposed to besecretlyaddressing him even though I can still hear every word he’s saying. “She loves her lasagna. But we have to ask for the vegan ricotta. Cheese makes her gassy.”
“Gage!” I smack his chest hard, making him wince.
“Anyways, tell Coach I’ll be there in a second.” Gagedismisses him with a flap of his hand, baring his teeth in a fake, patronizing smile.
Dilbert—poor, beautiful, stupid Dilbert—nods before skating away sullenly.
I finally manage to wrench myself from Gage’s arm, shouting helplessly after Dilbert, mentally weeping when said shouts get masked by the idle chatter of the other rink inhabitants. “I’m not lactose intolerant! And we’renottogether!”
Gage fist-bumps my little brother in victory, and I’m pretty much a hair width away from throat chopping him in front of an entire horde of kids. He’s so unbothered that his cocky grin stays intact, every muscle in his body so unbelievably relaxed that I can feel that one vein in my forehead bulge out.
“What the hell?” I snarl. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugs indifferently. “Need an emergency dance lesson. Tonight.”
I bet you a million dollars that he doesn’t. I can’t believe this. He sabotaged me! Embarrassed me! Oh, he’s going to pay. I’m going to make him pay. When will he get the hint that nothing will ever happen between us?
“Eight o’clock. Don’t be late,” he purrs as he starts walking backwards, aiming that hubris at me and finishing it off with an infuriating, blood-boiling wink.
8
THIS IS NOTHING LIKE FOOTLOOSE
GAGE
Fucking Dilbert. He better watch his back during practice. And games. And when he’s home alone. Yes, I know Cali isn’t mine, but jealousy kicked me in the stomach the moment I saw them talking. The way she was all googly eyes for him, the way he smiled at her. The two of them would’ve looked good together. Dilbert with his freakishly muscular physique, Cali with her gorgeous…everything. Jesus. I’m weak for her. Hopelessly gone.
I did what I had to, okay? I’m not proud of it. But it’s better than breaking my fist across his face.
Considering I basically forced her into giving me a dance lesson, I don’t know what to expect. She was definitely pissed earlier, and I doubt that she’s calmed down in the span of a few hours. If I’m lucky, I’ll still have my balls by the end of the night.
Since my request was an “emergency,” the dance studio wasn’t available for us to use on such short notice, so we’ve agreed that we’ll be working in the privacy of her home. Which now seems like both a good and bad thing.
I stand outside of her Halloween-decorated door, taking in the sight of the pumpkin string lights and the welcome mat thathas an ornate Ouija board design on it. My fist hovers over the slightly worn partition, but my nerves halt me from announcing my presence. Sweat dampens the back of my neck, seeming to instruct the rest of the moisture in my body to coalesce on my tacky skin. I can feel it seeping through the loose-fitting shirt I threw on, and a quick glance at my armpits confirms that I’m already rocking some unsightly rings. My heartbeat’s erratic, and my stomach’s rolling so violently that the burrito bowl I had earlier might make a reappearance all over her doorstep. I’ve never been this nervous about anything in my life. Not playoffs, not live interviews, not my high school SAT, not that ten-minute oral presentation I had to give in Spanish.
I don’t get nervous. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. In fact, any nerves trespassing on my turf will get choked out on sight. But an hour with Cali—the devil herself—bending my legs like a Barbie doll and probably yelling insults at me the entire way through has me rethinking this whole arrangement. Hockey be damned. Three months off the ice sucks, sure, but getting a “dance lesson” from the one girl who’s preoccupied my mind is a new kind of torture. Not only has she been living in my brain rent-free, but she’s moved in, furnished the place, and doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.
I’m not sure if she has secret security cameras somewhere, but she opens the door a moment later despite me not knocking, narrowed eyes drifting languidly over my body.
“You look like shit,” she says, tightening the beige belt around her hourglass figure.
She’s wearing an oversized trench coat for some reason, and I may be stupid, but I’m not an idiot. Trench coats aren’t dance appropriate. She’s hiding something.
I cluck my tongue. “At least I’m not smuggling three raccoons.”
