Page 11 of Lovesick
I need to get out of here, and I need to pray to all things holy that I never cross paths with this deceitful douche ever again. This is the last time I ever trust my pussy.
I force myself to get a grip, trying to squirm free with enough caution to avoid waking the beast. The last thing I need is to explain why I’m rushing out of his apartment beforebreakfast. I mean, this is standard protocol for a one-night stand, right? Plus, I’m dignified in my departure seeing as hemisledme. I don’t owe this scumbag anything! If I could gather up my cum and stuff it back inside me, I would!
Finally, after minutes of wiggling, I somehow manage to duck below his arms and weasel out of his embrace. He stirs to roll onto his stomach, which not only highlights his impeccable back muscles, but also the still-red scratch marks left from our…passionate…night together. Jesus, I went full Wolverine on him.
I crawl to the edge of the bed before executing a—perfect, if I do say so myself—Houdini escape onto the floor. With my dignity hanging on by a sad, loose thread, I collect my various articles of clothing, mentally chastise myself for being swayed by his charm, and tug my jacket and jeans on to hide the battlefield of bite marks he left in his wake.
I have twenty-five minutes to make it to campus, and calling my parents for a ride out of Hookupville is out of the question. This wasn’t how I wanted to start my first day of junior year. I was supposed to get a full ten hours of sleep in my comfy, king-sized bed, wake up to a delicious breakfast, and arrive at my class thirty minutes before start time.
Not even a month living back in Minnesota, and I’ve already fucked up. I made a promise to myself that I would never,eversleep with a hockey player after all the heinous things I’ve witnessed.
And Merit Lawson doesn’t break promises.
4
DON’T HATE THE PLAYER, HATE THE GAME
CREW
She’s gone. Poof. Out of existence. Walked out of my life without so much as a goodbye. I never even got her number; I never got any indication that she wanted to see me again. It sucks a lot more than I thought it would—and no, that’s not my bruised ego speaking.
I have an extensive history in the hookup department. Normally, I’d be grateful that a girl found herself an Uber and saved me from the awkward “this isn’t going to work out” talk, but not this time. Merit was different.Iwas different around her. I wasn’t plagued by my stupid star hockey player title that girls flock to like moths to a highly combustible flame.
Everyone always seems to want something from me because I’m “destined for greatness,” as my former coach put it. Whether it’s sex or connections, it doesn’t really matter. I’ve found that being lonely and being alone are two very different things. So, I lean into it—the exaggerated praise, the stretched half-truths, sometimes even the full-blown lies.
Merit had no idea who I was, and as masochistic as this might sound, it was refreshing to be treated like I was the scum of the earth. Not to mention that I loved how combative shewas. She didn’t make anything easy for me. Though I’d argue that I changed her mind toward the end. I do that—I grow on people like a fungal disease. It’s charming, really.
This isn’t how I wanted to start my junior year of college. Would I have declined breakfast between acquaintances before my first class? No, no I would not have. This has to be cosmic karma for something I’ve done in the past, right? Like,Hey, Crew. Remember that time you chose not to donate to that charity for sufferers of erectile dysfunction? Rue it, baby. See how your penis does when the first girl to pique your interest cockblocks you.
Or, you know, maybe it was for all those times that I was a complete asshole to any girl who wanted agenuineconnection with me.
When I was falling asleep with my cock buried inside Merit, it was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel so…alone. Like her allowing me to be skin-to-skin with her was some kind of subliminal message that someone needed—nay,wanted—me in a comfort that extended beyond networking and projected publicity.
I may never feel that again, and it terrifies me.
Even more than male pattern baldness.
The air is practically subzero as it cocoons my sweaty jersey, my sinuses burning from the unrelenting cold, and my thighs enduring a similar gauntlet of pain from overexertion.
I’m an incoming transfer student, but I’ve been working with the Minnesota Mustangs since summer. Renowned, top-performing, and even producers of some of the greatest names in NHL history. If I want a shot at going pro, this is my ticket. And seeing as my major isshockinglyundeclared, this is my best avenue to live a life full of purpose.
Something I’ve been searching for as long as I can remember.
Looking at me, I don’t scream “Major Daddy Issues with an Inferiority Complex,” but the sad reality is that I’ve let mydeadbeat, good-for-nothing father dictate how I live my life. It’s kind of hard not to when the one person who was supposed to love me up and left.
Not only did he abandon me and my mother, but he did so for another family. Abetterfamily. How am I supposed to be okay with the fact that I’m a product of my parents’ love, and yet my father can’t even stand to be in the same room as me? I know it’s not the guilt that eats away at him—it’s the resentment.
So every time I step onto the ice—trying to prove myself to a man who will never give me the time of day—I let the anger light a fire underneath my feet.
This morning, I enter the rink with my skates slashing across a tempered surface, flurries swirling in the atmosphere, and the puck flitting between the blade of my stick, hightailing it straight to the goal. I never lose sight of it. Adversaries from all different directions bulldoze onto the scene, swiping carelessly with clumsy sticks and half-baked plans.
I lengthen my strides, narrowly dodging incoming attacks from my teammates. I keep the disc in my possession by making a quick cut right, grinning to myself at the pileup of bodies left at center ice. The next time I’m faced with another obstacle, I make sure to turn my back and protect the puck, skating sideways toward the net.
Focus, Crew. See how the goalie’s anticipating your next move? You’re right-handed—he’s going to expect you to shoot for the left side of the goal. You’re lined up perfectly to sink a shot, but if you use the back of your blade to slap the puck into the lower righthand corner, he’ll never suspect it.
With my blade close to the ground, I arc it backwards for momentum and aim for the unprotected area of the net—only to have my plan, and route, derailed by a gargantuan figure. The puck flies off to God knows where as I’m thrown up against the boards, the whole left side of my body crumpling uponimpact. Teeth gritted to keep a groan at bay, an inferno blazes through the contact point of my shoulder, sweeping through my aching muscles and concentrating at my hip joint.
Fuck, that’s gonna bruise.
