Page 4 of Stick It
Please don’t let it be one of the mugs!
Sending up a silent prayer, I know I can’t sit in the BSU parking lot all night. It’s time to really get this fresh start underway.
Starting the engine, I pull out through the campus gates and head toward Athletes Row, the street where all student-athletes are housed. Why? Because it’s the closest one to the sports center.
Blackstone is a small college town, so it only takes a few minutes before I turn onto the correct street, slowing as I check the numbers on each house for number 91—where I’ll live for at least the next nine months. Even though the academic year doesn’t start for another two weeks, the street is busy with other athletic students moving in since we all typically start back a week before everyone else.
With my window down to allow the pleasant August breeze to blow through my hair, I catch the upbeat tune from a speaker set up in the front lawn of a house as I drive past. Another house has two girls working together to carry an armchair inside, with a group of guys sitting outside the house opposite, beer in hand as they enjoy the last wisps of sunshine for the day.
Not that it gets cold at night at this time of year in Vermont. While our winters are bitingly cold, our summer days arehot,and our evenings blissfully pleasant.
Halfway down the street, I find the house I’ve been assigned to and pull up to the curb outside. My fingers tap absently against the wheel as I stare up at the three-story Victorian structure.
The house stands tall and stately, its pale clapboard siding weathered just enough to suggest history without neglect. Deep, Bermuda blue shutters frame the windows, and the steeply pitched roofline gives it a quaint, almost storybook charm. Despite its age, the house feels welcoming, like it has witnessed countless fresh starts and quiet triumphs. Against my better judgment, a flicker of hope stirs in my chest, a nervous energy simmering just beneath my skin.
Not one to put something off once I’ve set my mind to it, I blow out one final breath before I mutter, “Here goes nothing,” and climb out of the car.
I twirl the keys around my finger as I make my way up the drive, the soles of my Converse slapping against the asphalt as I eye the large bay window that overlooks the front yard. I don’t see any movement from within. Perhaps no one is home? Refusing to acknowledge the butterflies in my stomach, I stuff my keys into my pocket so I can’t fiddle with them before ascending the front porch steps and rapping my knuckles against the faded wood of the front door.
Straining to listen, I don’t hear any noise from inside the house. I can’t decide if I’d prefer someone to be home so we can get this over with and I can collapse onto my bed, or if I’m grateful for the extra moments to gather myself.
Before returning to my car, I decide to try once more. I knock again, harder this time. Not expecting anyone to answer, I turn my back to the door and instead look out over the street,watching other co-eds laugh around with one another while they haul in suitcases or relax on folding chairs on the front lawn.
“Hi? Can I help you?”
“Jesus.” I nearly jump out of my skin, my hand moving to rest over my thundering heart as I whirl to…
Whatever I was going to do or say is instantly forgotten as I stare dumbfounded at the sexiest, half-naked man I’ve ever seen leaning on the now open door. He’s all cut muscle and casual confidence—abs tight, chest broad, and arms that make my knees forget how to function. Not to mention the swirls of black ink decorating his left pec and arm. I can’t look away, he’sthatgood-looking. I’m not even exaggerating. I grew up watching hockey—playinghockey with a bunch of boys. Believe me, I have seenplentyof hot, strong, powerful bodies, butnonethat come attached to the face of an angel.
A cheeky, smirking, mischievous angel.
Dammit, I’ve totally been caught gawking.
Striking green eyes dance with mirth, framed by thick, dark lashes that leave me envious. His sharp nose sits slightly crooked on his face, giving him a ruggedness that matches his tats. Freckles dance across his cheekbones, and red hair curls messily around his head.
All of it melds together to form a breathtaking scene.
No one—and I meanno one—has the right to look that good.
“Most call me Finn, but, sweet cheeks, you can feel free to call me anything you want.”
His suggestive tone has my jaw snapping shut, and I can only hope no drool leaked out as I crash-land back in reality.
A reality where I’m standing onFinn O’Rourke’sdoorstep. The Steelhawks’ number-one right winger. Oh yes, I know precisely who Finn O’Rourke is. I’ve just never had the…pleasure?…of seeing him out of his gear.
AndGod, I wish that were still the case. At least then, I’d know he wouldn’t be starring in my fantasies when I fall into bed at night.
“Uh, I think I must have the wrong house.” I deliberately look everywhere and anywhere but into those hypnotizing eyes.
“What a happy accident for you,” he teases with a lascivious smirk that…nope!
Ignoring him, I stuff my hand in my pocket, finding the scrap of paper with the address of my new accommodation. Scanning it, I frown. “Number ninety-one?” I mutter to myself before lifting my head, finally daring to meet his gaze. “Is this number ninety-one?”
“The one and only.”
I frown. “Are you sure?”
His laugh is deep and melodic, like being dipped in dark chocolate. “Pretty sure. Only been living here for three years.”
