Page 8 of Body Check
Lifting the bowl in my direction, he frowns. “But I’m almost done.”
“Oh, no. You’re completely done,” I correct, swiping the bowl from his outstretched hand. And, okay, maybe I’m a little heavy-handed. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a slight shoving motion that accompanies my retrieval.
“Getting your fucking hands off me,” he says, standing tall and puffing out his chest. He’s not nearly as scrawny as he was last year, I’ll give him that. Maybe this isn’t his first sweet potato heist.
“You had your fucking hands on my lunch, so I’d say we’re even,” I shoot back, grabbing a fresh fork and savoring the few bites that are left..
“It’s just food, asshole. And I said I was sorry.”
“Are you still yapping?” I ask, leaning against the counter and popping a morsel of chicken into my mouth.
“Fuck you,” he shoots back, shoulder checking me as he heads for the stairs.
Oh, the fuck no. I stick my foot out just far enough that it catches the toe of his slide. He regains his balance and whips around to confront me, but I’m on the other side of the centerisland now. He reaches across the counter to tip the bowl out of my hand, and he nearly does it. The guy’s quick as fuck, but he’s sloppy, unfocused. I duck, causing his hand to hit the porcelain fruit bowl. Apples and bananas go flying as the sound of shattering ceramic rings out through the kitchen.
“You are such a dick,” he says, his face red.
“I’m an asshole. There’s a difference,” I correct him.
“You’re a selfish prick, is what you are,” he throws back.
“Says the shit-for-brains who can’t read a damn label and stole my lunch.”
It’s too damn easy to rile him up, and he launches himself at me. He doesn’t get very far, though, because Jablonski’s here to play peacemaker.
“Take it easy, Mickey,” he soothes. It pisses me off how everybody treats this guy like a kid on the verge of a temper tantrum. Although, to be fair, that’s kind of what he is.
“Yeah, listen to your buddy,” I taunt. “Take it easy. Better yet, calm the fuck down and focus, for Christ’s sake. If you weren’t bouncing off the walls and acting like a damn child, who knows, you might actually play a decent game of hockey.” I’m being an ass, and I know it, but there’s truth in what I’m saying. Mickey’s got more talent than a lot of the guys I’ve played with, but he can’t harness it for shit, and that’s gonna be his downfall.
He squares up with me, and I swear there’s steam coming out of his ears. The only reason this hasn’t ended in a fistfight is because Ollie’s holding him back. But Ollie won’t be here forever, and even though I’m walking away now, I have no clue how I’m going to live in the same house and play on the same team as Mickey for the next two years.
4
Bridgette
For two weeks now, I’ve been juggling my classes and my job at the salon. It’s a busy schedule, but I love what I do, and I know that with each passing day, I’m inching closer to the goal of owning my own salon. Although after a day of styling hair for a wedding with twelve bridesmaids, it’s entirely possible I could be persuaded to pursue another line of work.
Ooh, you know what I’d be really good at? Naming nail polish colors. Is that a job that’s still up for grabs?
If demanding wedding attendants do me in and I decide to nix Curl Up and Dye before the doors even open, maybe I’ll give that job a try.
And no, I’m not really going to name my salon and day spa Curl Up and Dye. Well, probably not. Okay, it’s definitely on the list.
What’s also on the list—for tonight, anyway—is a steaming hot bath, a charcoal face mask, and a pedicure.
But first, I must party. I’m the kind of girl who’d much rather go dancing at a club than hang out in some basement and drink stale beer, but the party tonight is at Bran’s new place. He’s been bugging me to come over, and since his teammate Ollie decidedto throw a pre-season party, my brother thought it would be the perfect night for me to meet his buddies and have some fun.
Bran and I have different definitions of fun, though. I’m not as extroverted as he is, and I’ve used up all my social battery at the salon today. I wish I could skip the party and head straight to my dorm, but a promise is a promise. And after all Bran has done for me, I hate to let him down. Besides, I’m sure I’ll have fun, and I have it on good authority that Ollie’s bartending skills far surpass those of anyone else on campus. Plus, I have a pretty great costume if I do say so myself. The trick is that you can wear anything you want to the party, as long as it’s not clothing. Since my ball gown is comprised entirely of drugstore receipts—and a strapless bra—I’m good to go.
Or I would be, if this rain would let up. My weather app says I’ll have a small window of dry weather in about two minutes, so I apply a coat of gloss to my lips and tuck my key fob into my ample cleavage. I didn’t have time to make pockets. Sue me.
The new hockey house is massive, and I’m not sure which entrance I should use, but since I’m parked closer to the back patio and I can hear the thunder rolling in overhead, I make my way toward the fenced-in backyard. The gate is open and the pool water is shimmering. Bran texted earlier to say they moved the party inside, but I spot a few guys out on the deck as I walk through the open gate. None of them look familiar, but since I’m used to seeing my brother’s teammates in full gear out on the ice, I’m not sure I’d recognize most of them in plain clothes. I know JT, of course, and I met Ollie when I visited this summer, but neither of them are out here now.
There’s a crowd gathered around a picnic table, and one guy is off to himself, looking out over the railing. I can’t see his face in the shadows, but his body is a work of art. Maybe he got kicked out of the party for wearing actual clothes, but I have no complaints about what those basketball shorts are doing to hisass or the way his t-shirt clings to his biceps. I could stay here all night and ogle him, but that’s a little creepy. Tempting, but creepy. The guys at the table look like they might know where Bran is, so instead of approaching a totally hot total stranger, I make my way toward the bro brigade.
One of them is wrapped in nothing but caution tape, and another guy is wearing a coconut bra and grass skirt. The third one has on a pair of board shorts made entirely of beer can boxes. I give them all a C for creativity, but at least I know I’m at the right party. And when I see a set of steps leading to a sliding glass door, I mentally give myself a high-five for finding the door without having to bug anyone.
All I need to do now is find my brother, hang out for a bit, and then head home to a night of relaxation.
