Page 15 of Lovesick
Now that I’m trapped inside, the temperature is definitelytoo hot for my long sleeves, and there’s no saying how long it’ll take for me to fold like a bad hand of poker.
I catch a fleeting glimpse of the back of Merit’s dress, and fuck me, it’s backless. A delectable sliver of spine entices me, and there’s a giant bow that rests right above her butt—the one Ivividlyremember grabbing until the flesh turned red.
My mouth waters, but it’s not food I crave.
God, what’s wrong with me? Get it together, man! Stop staring at her like she’s a piece of meat. She’s not. She’s…she’s so out of your league andsonot interested in rekindling things.
“Merit, this is Crew Calloway, the new captain for the season. He’s one of the best players I’ve ever had the privilege of coaching. Got a real shot at going pro.”
My brain has to recalibrate before I realize that he just gave me a compliment. “Thank you, sir. It’s been an honor working under your expertise.”
Why do I feel the need to bow? Should I bow? Is that culturally appropriate in the United States?
Coach bursts into braying laughter—the kind that could set off an avalanche in the dead of winter. “No formalities here, son. Please, call me James.”
I’ve never called him James before. I kind of never imagined him having a first name for some reason. In fact, I never imagined him having a life outside of hockey. But he clearly does, holed up in his million-dollar mansion with his daughter who’s been a constant thorn in my side ever since she Irish goodbye’d me in my own apartment.
Everyone just loiters in the foyer, relying on the awkward silence to carry our lack of conversation. Speaking of foyer, they have afoyer.
A vaulted ceiling stretches into the heavens, hosting a crystal chandelier that reflects a warm haze onto the polished hardwood. The crown molding looks like something out of an architectural digest, and there are potted monsteras stationedat the entrance, followed by a spiral staircase that probably leads up to the lion’s den, or more appropriately, Merit’s bedroom.
“I hope you’re hungry. My wife made dinner,” James says, strolling into the adjoining dining room.
I don’t think I could eat even if I was starving.
Merit lingers behind him, waiting until he’s out of earshot before glaring at me with enough venom to turn me into stone. “What the hell are you doing here?” she hisses under her breath, nostrils flared, and teeth bared in the semblance of a snarl.
“Do you think Iplannedfor this to happen?” I snap, and suddenly, the short-lived relief of seeing her again is stubbed out beneath the hurt that comes to a screaming boil in my chest. High-pitched, corrosive,unbearable. “You ghosted me.”
“You lied to me.”
“About?”
“You—you’re a hockey player!”
“I never lied. You never asked.”
Even in her heels, she’s still considerably shorter than me, and I have to resist the urge to laugh in her face when she shakes with pint-sized rage. “Oh my God! I never would’ve slept with you if I knew you were a hockey player!”
Instead of retreating, I close the distance between us. “I feel like that’s an unfair generalization. Not all hockey players are bad.”
Surprisingly—or unsurprisingly, given her spitfire nature—she doesn’t back down, getting all up in my personal space with her sweet-smelling perfume and her beautiful blue eyes and a blistering hatred that shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does.
“Oh, and let me guess: You’re going to be the one to change my mind?”
Indignation bubbles in my stomach. “You don’t know me. You barely even gave me a chance.”
“An omission of truth is a pretty big personality indicator,” she growls. “And do I have to remind you thatyoucame on tome? We both agreed to end the night in sex, did we not? I don’t owe you anything beyond that.”
This issonot going the way I wanted it to. She hates me. And as angry as I am at the situation, I’m also partly to blame. After her tirade about hockey players, maybe I should’ve been upfront with her. I didn’t withhold the truth just so I could sleep with her. I truly thought it didn’t matter. She acts like she’s been personally victimized by every single hockey player in existence.
I rake a hand through my gelled hair, loosening some of the product. “I didn’t mean it like th?—”
She cuts me off as her ocean eyes darken—something leviathan and all-out dangerous lurking in the bottomless depths, stalking me, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
“It doesn’t matter. If my father knew what happened between us, he’d kill us both.”
I scoff. “Daddy’s princess? I think you’ll be fine.”
