Page 31 of Lovesick
Crew slowly lets go of my wrist, hackles raised. “Oh, sonowyou need my help?”
“Look, MU hosts a fundraiser every year, and this year, I’m head chair. We’re raising money for impoverished schools to have access to hockey programs. My dad doesn’t want anything to do with it, but you’re team captain. You’re the only person who stands a chance at convincing him. This could be crucial for the success of the campaign. If students see that the hockey team is involved, our sales will skyrocket.”
Crew ponders my proposition—still distractingly shirtless—and rubs a hand down his chiseled abdominals, making sure I get a front row seat. A desperate call for attention.
A desperatelyhotcall for attention.
Seriously, Merit?
Knowing him, I should’ve expected what comes out of hismouth next, but I had prayed that he’d take the moral high road and help me out of the kindness of his heart.
I was wrong.
“What do I get in return?”
Fuck, I don’t know. What does this guy want? Money? A lifetime supply of Häagen-Dazs?
An exasperated sigh shudders out of my lungs. It’s like I’m trying to negotiate with a toddler. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t even pretend to think about it—he already knows. Actually, I suspect that he’s known this entire time. I suddenly regret bringing this up. What if he wants me to dress up as his own personal maid and attend to his needs twenty-four-seven? I’d rather gargle with glass.
“I want that date,” Crew drawls, capitalizing on my generosity, his eyes listing conspicuously over my lips.
Something inside me dies. Hope, self-respect…all the above. This man has a loaded gun against my temple, and he’s playing Russian roulette with my life. If my father were to ever find out about this, he might slap a chastity belt on me until I’m well into my thirties.
My lips part to object, though Crew is already walking away from me, and I blame my dad’s lack of involvement for making him so fearless.
“And you’re wearing my jersey to the game tonight.”
10
HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!
CREW
When I saw Merit in the men’s locker room, it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over me. I’ve never been possessive over any girl before, but she’s a different story. The moment Volesky started getting up in her business, the creature inside of mesnapped. Not just because I’m some territorial asshole claiming her in front of my teammates (which I am), but because my mother taught me that no man should ever speak to a woman like that. And I’m in a privileged position where I can call out blatant sexism like that without consequence.
I wanted to do a lot more than tell him off. Fuck, I wanted to break his jaw so that he’d have to eat through a straw for the next three months. I wanted to bash his head against the lockers and watch the blood run out. It was like I lost all control over my emotions. A total blackout.
Tonight, that rage is going to fuel me on the ice.
From my position in the tunnel, I watch as the stands fill with eager students decked out in white and maroon merchandise, some toting foam fingers while others hug rolled-upposters underneath their arms. The air is charged with anticipation, harpooned by frenzied shouts from the masses.
This game has the possibility to set a precedence for the rest of the season. I need to play like my life fucking depends on it—because it does. The scout is here somewhere. If I don’t make a good first impression, I can kiss my dream of making it to the NHL goodbye.
Even with the rink situated in a fully enclosed space, the negative-degree chill still slips beneath my hockey gear and caresses my body in an incorporeal embrace of ice.
I’m nervous as fuck. My stomach has been a mess all day, I haven’t been able to sit still, and I could barely focus on my statistics homework. Then Merit blindsided me by showing up in the men’s locker room and things really went haywire.
Am I glad that she’s coming to the game tonight? Yeah. Am I worried that she’s going to distract me? Yeah. Will I regret making such a stupid deal with her that could very likely cost me my future? Maybe. If we’re working together in close quarters for an entire semester, I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself.
I know I’m a goddamn dog for admitting this, but while she stood there and yelled at me, I was praying that she didn’t notice the half chub under my towel. I think I’m slowly discovering things about myself that I don’t like knowing—like how submissive I am with the right woman.
I try my best to modulate my breathing, but those meditation exercises that my therapist recommended aren’t doing jack shit. My pulse gallops, anxiety cleaves through me like a hacksaw hewing bone, and my brain goes completely dark while I wait for impending doom to submerge the entire arena in a treacherous abyssal zone. I feel like I’m going to pass out.
Breathe, Crew. Ground yourself. Practice the 5-4-3-2-1 method.
I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and will the world to slowdown, letting the hammering of my heart remind me that I’m present, I’m safe, I’malive.
