Page 23 of Lovesick
I’m paralyzed. I don’t even think my heart is beating anymore.
“Babe, you’re as white as a sheet,” Irelyn comments from beside me, though her words are warbled beyond comprehension, lost to my ouroboros of overthinking.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m behind enemy lines. My brain is troubleshooting the best solution, but it’s coming up blank. It feels like my whole world has capsized. My sanity, my ego…they’re not going to survive.
I can already picture Crew’s smug face; I can already hear all the innuendos he’s going to torture me with on a weekly basis. If my heart is picketing this godawful dynamic, then why is the lower half of me tingling? Who uncapped a zoo of butterflies in my stomach, and where’s the nearest flamethrower when you need one?
Suddenly, the metaphorical spotlight finds me again and blasts me with blinding illumination.
“Ms. Lawson, since you’re head chair, it’s going to be your responsibility to convince the Mustangs to work with the marketing team,” Mrs. Burke informs me.
Convince?Oh, Mrs. Burke, you’re sorely mistaken. Just because I have the connection doesn’t mean I have the authority. Anything that distracts my father’s players from the Frozen Four is terminated on sight.
But that’s not what I say. I don’t have the courage tosayanything. I nod my head robotically, and I swallow a disgusting accumulation of pre-puke saliva.
“Irelyn, do you know what this means?” I mumble weakly, strangling my ballpoint pen in a death grip.
She’s hesitant to respond—probably because she knows that I’m about to implode like a fluorescent light bulb and take everyone in the room with me.
“Um, that we’renotgoing to raise any money because your dad’s crazy protective over his hockey team?”
Hope gutters inside me, similar to a newborn flame flickering with the last dregs of life before being obliterated by a tempest. “That I’m going to be Crew Calloway’s bitch for the rest of the semester.”
8
SO MUCH FOR SECOND CHANCES
CREW
Merit Lawson has become the forefront of every pulse-ratcheting and heart-fluttering feeling in my hockey-wired brain. I haven’t been able to think clearly ever since the night we almost died. And no, it’s not because I was afraid of going toward the light. It’s because holding her in my arms was the closest I’d ever felt to peace, and I’m a selfish bastard for wanting to chase that little slice of paradise.
She hasn’t talked to me since that night—not that I was really expecting her to. We never even exchanged numbers. A stupid, delusional part of me has been trying to manifest her back into my life like she’ll have a sudden change of heart.
I wanted to follow her into her house that night, but my rationale stopped me before I ended up straining things between her and her father. The last thing I want to do is complicate her family dynamic. Hell, I practicallyinvitedmyself to occupy a permanent seat at the dining table—a decision which she had no say in. I don’t think saving her from a rogue car is going to make up for the way I infiltrated her life.
I’m still sore from our near-death experience, but thankfully, the wide-ranging bruises are on their way to healing.
I scratch my thumbnail against a pitted groove of woodgrain, keeping my head low as the intoxicated crowd showers the bar in a crescendo of unintelligible shouts. Some of the guys on the team wanted to take advantage of the discounted beer pitchers, so now I’m a prisoner of Maple Grove’s very own hole-in-the-wall on this extremely uneventful Friday night. The game is tomorrow, and aside from the added pressure of having to perform for a scout, my brain refuses to change the Merit station.
What is it about this girl? How does she get all my wires crossed? Wires that have never been crossed in my twenty-one years of life, mind you.
The giant glass of beer in front of me remains untouched, and I watch apathetically as deep vents of carbonation bubble to the top, collecting beneath a dome of pale foam. I’m always down for a drink or two, but right now, drowning myself in alcohol is the last thing I want to do. My teammates, however, couldn’t care less as they polish off the first pitcher and ask for a second.
Harlan, Foster, Axel, Sutton, Knox—he invited himself, okay?—and I have dubbed this table the hockey team’s.
Foster poses the first question of the night, mischief rippling across his giddy expression. “Alright, would you rather have penis-sized fingers or a finger-sized penis?”
Foster is the Mustang’s renowned goalie, and for good reason. He rarely lets a shot get past him. His lithe frame helps with his agility and speed, even when he’s weighed down by all that extra gear. Honestly, he could probably beat me as the team’s fastest skater. He’s on the quiet side, but he’s very talkative once you get to know him. And he’s the complete opposite of a textbook hockey player—amicable, smells good, can’t lie for shit. His parents are really pressuring him to pursue acareer in medicine. He comes from a traditional Asian American household, and I’ve caught the tail end of Mandarin-spoken arguments over the phone between him and his parents more than once.
“What are the logistics here? Can you still pee out of that small of a dick?” Axel inquires, sounding far too concerned.
Axel doesn’t join us on many outings. Not only is he a killer defenseman, but he also plays on the football team, so he floats between social groups. He’s a man of many talents. He’s also one of those charismatic guys who makes friends wherever he goes. One time, he was at this crazy house party that almost got shut down by the cops, and he used his voodoo magic to not only save the party but somehow convince the officers to stick around for a drink. He’s going to be an unstoppable sales representative in the future. I wouldn’t be surprised if he inherits his dad’s technology corporation in Puerto Rico.
“Wouldn’t know. Ask Sutton.”
Sutton flips him the bird. “I’d strangle you right now if we weren’t in public.”
It’s a good thing he doesn’t—that would be like aTom and Jerryfight sequence. Foster as the comically small, anthropomorphic mouse. Sutton as the big, mean cat who somehow has an arsenal of state-banned weapons.
