Page 120 of Hockey Halloween
Someone shoves the door hard. It doesn’t budge. Ligaya pushes me away like I’m highly flammable.
“Occupied!” she calls breathlessly to the people outside.
“Why is it locked?” a whiny voice demands.
Ligaya rolls her eyes as if she already knows who it is. I adjust my wrinkled, untucked shirt. Ligaya finds her glasses and puts them on. Her hair has fallen over her shoulders, and I can’t help but touch the ends. My gesture rattles her. She’s even prettier when she’s flustered.
“I got locked in,” she yells at the door.
“Since when?”
Ligaya puts her finger against her lips to keep me from answering. I’m tucked against the wall while she yells instructions.
“There’s a button underneath the handle. Press it to release the lock.”
We hear a click. Ligaya looks at me apologetically before stepping out and closing the door behind her. Did she just lock me back in by myself?
“You were going to sneak in here instead of going to class, weren’t you,” she accuses sternly.
“Drama is life, Ms. Torres.”
“Not at the moment. Go back to class. I need to organize thesets. They got shuffled at the last rehearsal,” she instructs in a confident voice. “I’ll let you in when drama club officially starts.”
The commanding edge to her voice is freaking hot.
Sexy teacher kink unlocked.
“Remember, detention means you’ll miss rehearsal,” she threatens with the authority of a tiny-but-mighty dictator.
After a minute, the door flies open. Ligaya reaches in to haul me out to the bright hallway.
“You need to go.” Her mouth is puffy, nearly bruised looking from our kisses. I’m tempted to carry her into the room to finish what we started.
“When are we grabbing a drink?” I ask.
She gives me a look like I told her to do somersaults shirtless. The thought drags my eyes down to her breasts, which I would very much like to see shirtless. Somersaults optional.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Ligaya. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Tristan Thorne getting another notch on his proverbial bed post? No, thank you. I’m not that easy.”
She turns away, walks briskly, then peeks over her shoulder to check if I’m still where she left me.
I wink, not bothering to correct the “proverbial bed post” comment although it’s the farthest thing from accurate. The fuckboy reputation sticks to many single hockey players, whether it’s deserved or not.
More importantly, I never once associated Ligaya with “easy.”
She’s my Terror after all.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Ligaya
Toby and I are walking the campus perimeter, logging our steps in our fitness app before my five thirty rehearsal starts. The air is autumn-crisp, and the leaves are vibrant reds. It’s a perfect day to clear my head.
“So. Tristan Thorne, hockey hunk. What’s up with that?” Toby’s side eye is as subtle as a mime trying to get your attention.
