Page 29 of Lovesick
Oh, God. Here it comes. The big finale. Just spit it out.
“And I was hoping that this fundraiser could be a joint effort with the Mustangs. You know, to really drive sales.”
“Mm-hm.”
Uh. What does that mean? My mental sirens are going offlike crazy right now. Nobody gets between my dad and his players.Nobody.I should’ve quit while I was ahead.
There’s a trench whittled between his impassive brows, his mouth pulled into a straight line to convey what I’m assuming is thinly veiled disapproval. I feel so small and helpless, even though I’m head chair. Like there’s the weight of the world on my shoulders, and one ungracious fall off my pedestal is about to provoke a groundbreaking cataclysm.
Maybe I’m digging myself a deeper hole, but I don’t hesitate to pull out all the stops. “It could be really good for the team too! I created this PowerPoint showing how participation will directly affect ticket sales for the season. It’s also for a great cause. If the hockey team gets involved in more school-related events, it could foster a closer community within the student body, and students who aren’t avid hockey fans will be more likely to attend games.”
My dad’s not normally an emotional person. He’s hardened, guarded—I take after him in that way. At least, I do now. But standing here before him, rambling on a tangent with truly no clue on how I’m supposed to pull all this off, failure spawns in the cavern of my chest, overcrowding the heart that expends itself to make everyone else happy.
My father blows out a sigh as he stands up, dwarfing me in his shadow. “I’m sorry, pumpkin. It’s just not possible this season. The team needs to be solely focused on hockey, and they can’t do that if I have them making bake sale brownies to help your marketing class.”
I’ve been arguing with my dad ever since I could talk. Not about important stuff, obviously. Whether I was begging him for a Strawberry Shortcake doll or a pint of ice cream after dinner, I learned that what he says goes, and trying to change his mind is a fruitless endeavor. He’s strict, but it’s only because he loves me.
I don’t know how else to plead my case. Whipping out the PowerPoint now seems like a harebrained decision. “But…”
“I wish I could help, I do. You’re raising money for a good cause, but piling extra responsibilities onto my players is only going to impact their performances. The Mustangs have a reputation to uphold. We made it to the Frozen Four last season and lost at the second semifinal. We have the best shot at making it to the championship game with Crew as captain.”
Crew, Crew, Crew. It’s all about Crew.
Damn, Merit. Even your dad prioritizes hockey over you. That’s depressing.
Now isnotthe time, brain.
I’m not hankering for an argument. Mrs. Burke shouldn’t have put all the pressure on me. If she was so invested in making this work out, maybesheshould’ve been the one to speak with my dad. There’s nothing else I can do.
Resigned, I accept defeat. “Okay. Sorry for wasting your time, Dad.”
He walks around his desk and pulls me into a hug, though it’s not comforting in the least. “You’ve got this. I know you’ll be able to raise enough money all on your own. If there was more that I could do, you know I would,” he whispers, rubbing ministrations on my back.
“Yeah,” I lie, unable to staunch the hurt. Even sutures and practiced hands couldn’t close the wound that’s opened because of his rejection. “I know.”
Trudging out of my dad’s office with a “no” is like one hellish walk of shame. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Mrs. Burke and my classmates. They were counting on me, and I let them down. Maybe I don’t deserve to be head chair.
I receive the same outrage from the still half-naked hockey team, but instead of a little impromptu rendezvous with my archenemy, I run into a different player this time—a brunet with a physique that could give an Abercrombie & Fitch modela run for his money. He eyes me like an emaciated coyote circling sun-bleached carrion.
“Back for seconds?” he asks, his tone ripe with flirtation.
“No,” I say, trying to sidestep him. I’m so not in the mood right now.
When he smiles, it’s smarmy, and the sight of it makes my stomach roll.
“Come on, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Oh, hell no. If this creep doesn’t get away from me in the next two seconds, I’ll knee him in his shrimp dick. And I’m about to do just that when I hear a clicking sound from behind me. Lo and behold, when I turn around, Crew has teleported to my side, repeating that same clicking with his tongue. A warning.
“Back off, Volesky. Not her.Never her,” he growls, the muscles in his chest clenching with a quiet kind of power, tributaries of bluish veins lining his arms. The anger in his voice is surprisingly terrifying, dredged from deep within his gut. Crew has at least a few inches over this guy, and judging by body mass, about thirty pounds on him.
Volesky scoffs, but he doesn’t have the balls to stand up to Crew. Even if he did, he’d lose.
His attitude shifts, and he mimics some crudely apologetic imitation. “I was just being friendly.”
The collective breath in the locker room is bated as everyone stares at the altercation waiting to happen. There are no phones whipped out in search of virality, no hoots or hollers egging them on—just pure fear in witness of their captain’s authority. I’ve never seen Crew so angry before. He looks like he’s seconds away from clocking Volesky in the jaw.
For the first time since he intervened, Crew makes a show of stepping into Volesky—enough to make the other man stumble backwards over his feet. A disgraced dog in the presence of a wolf, a pack leader, athreat.
