Page 14 of Lovesick
“Or she’s a tourist who went to the most popular bar in our Podunk town,” I reply pessimistically.
Harlan’s about to rebut my statement before Coach Lawson cuts off our unauthorized intermission, his burly arms crossed over his barrel chest, and his dark eyes dialed in on me specifically. His irises are like stagnant pools of murky lake water, and they have every intention of drowning me.
“Calloway!” he shouts despite being directly next to me.
I flinch. “Yes, Coach?”
“I’d like to invite you to dinner tomorrow night. I want to discuss some logistics before the season starts, and I want to thank you for all your hard work this preseason.”
Dinner. With Coach Lawson. Yeah, that’s totally not intimidating at all. I haven’t spent one-on-one time with him outsideof practice. Nothing ever warranted us speaking in leisure, but it feels like I’ve just infiltrated the goddamn Pentagon. Coach is one of my inspirations. In hockey, in life. Not only that, but he’s sort of like the father figure I never had. There’s this added pressure weighing on my chest to make him proud, and I don’t think I can survive an alternate timeline where that isn’t a reality.
And, I mean, I’d be shark chum if I had the gall to refuse his gracious offer, so all I can say is, “I’ll be there.”
Realistically, we’re going to partake in good food, conversation, and maybe a pep talk that eradicates this parasite of worry gnawing away at my bones. This is a chance for me to deepen our relationship outside of hockey—to gain his trust and prove to him that he made the right choice in backing me.
What’s the worst that could happen?
5
RUDE AWAKENING? PARTY OF ONE
CREW
Istand before a two-story mansion, suddenly feeling incredibly small amongst the ornate, gold detailing, intricately sculpted columns, two-bay garage, vine-overrun veranda, siding exterior constructed of grouted cobble, and shingled roof that attaches to grandiose gables. The length of the driveway—popcorned with gravel and sandwiched between crimson sugar maples—elongates its welcome to my threadbare shoes. The yard itself is neatly trimmed, scattered with honeysuckle bushes and dotted with perspiration from the storm clouds overhead. Awash in a halo of gilded light from a lone streetlamp, my gaze slides up to the giant, foreboding casement windows, making a pitstop across the exterior of the house in hopes of finding a modicum of mundaneness—a sign that I belong here even despite my class status.
But as my feet turn cold, I’m not allotted any time to change my mind. I can hear rumblings of a conversation from within the house, the acoustics of footfalls amplifying, and the button-up that I threw on for this occasion is suddenly two sizes too small. I loosen my tie with bleached fingers, feeling it squeeze my neck like a noose.
It’s really hot out here. Why is it hot out here? Minnesota is fifty-nine degrees on a good day. Oh my God. I’m burning up. I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat. I’m not normally a nervous person, okay?
With my stomach turning like a goddamn concrete mixer, the double doors swing open, heralding a warm pall of air, and if I wasn’t already nervous enough, my pulse rockets through the roof when I see who’s standing on the other side of the threshold. Because no, Coach Lawson’s six-foot-three body is not crowding the doorway like I expected. Instead, I’m met with someone exponentially shorter than me…and someone I never thought I’d ever see again.
Her silky, chestnut waves of hair are unmistakable. The vanilla and jasmine scent clinging to her is irreplaceable. And those eyes—so hauntingly blue that I now see the resemblance between her and her father—promise to dismantle my entire world, piece by piece, until there’s no hope of rebuilding what once was.
Merit.
I’m frozen to the spot, unsure if she’s a hallucination of my innermost desires as my heart cries out to her in the most visceral of wails. Given the chance, I wouldn’t be surprised if it crawled out of my fucking body to reach her.
She doesn’t move either, though I deduce that it’s more out of shock than relief.
She’s donned the prettiest pink dress I’ve ever seen, its neckline dropping just slightly to display her elegant collarbones. It’s tailored perfectly to her lithe body, and the hem consists of pleated fabric that tapers in at her bikini line, creating two sections of puffy material on either side of her hips. A light brush of mascara thickens her lashes, the apples of her cheeks are powdered in a rosy hue, and there’s a thin gloss slathered on her pouty, kissable lips. Lastly, her hair is throwninto a sleek bun as rebellious strands curl free to frame her doll-like face. In short, she looks flawless.
Shit. There are a million questions circulating through my brain on a conveyor belt, but none of them materialize before Coach Lawson interrupts our creepy staring contest with, thank God, zero awareness of the strange tension arcing between us.
“Crew! It’s so lovely of you to join us. Come in,” he greets, beckoning me with a large hand.
He’s never called me by my first name before. This is serious.
Nausea coats my tongue, and swallowing doesn’t wash away the vile taste. I painstakingly inch into the house, moving at the pace of a snail while Coach Lawson has me pinned under his gaze like a taxidermied butterfly. Irrationally, I blame it on the cold. Rationally, I blame it on the ghost of my dearly departed one-night stand.
Either Coach is more oblivious than I thought or he’s too polite to comment on my strange behavior because there’s still a larger-than-life smile plastered to his face. “Crew, this is my daughter, Merit. She just started her junior year at Minnesota University.”
Oh, we’ve met before. And no, that little detail never seemed to come up.
I prayed that this day would come. I was ready to trade all my earthly possessions for ten more minutes of her measly time, but I never envisioned this train wreckage in my melatonin-induced slumber. Merit is Coach’s daughter. I.e., off-limits. I.e., if he ever finds out about the way I fucked her like a porn star, the best-case scenario is that he ends my hockey career by breaking my legs instead of castrating me with a rusty set of pliers.
All I can muster is a weak, “Cool.”
COOL? Who says “cool?” Have I lost my goddamn mind?
