Page 10 of Frenemies with a Player
“It’s basically the highest level for college students.”
“That’s impressive,” she says.
“You’re going to Harvard, aren’t you? That’s impressive,” I say. I don’t know what’s up with me, other than I am feeling off about not having a plan for next year, and I seem to be taking out my frustration on this gorgeous woman.
“I applied.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I know if I made it in. It’s too early. Besides, aren’t you going to go to the NHL?”
“So, you know about hockey?” I ask.
“Very little. Every Canadian knows the basics,” she replies with nonchalance.
“If you say so,” I reply. “So how are you getting across this lawn in that wet robe?”
I’m curious.
She bites her lip. “I’m a little tipsy. I drank some wine.”
I look at the bottle. “Care to share?” I cock my right brow. She passes me the bottle.
“Help yourself.” I take it and our fingers brush. A bolt of electricity hits me in the groin.
“Thanks.” I take a swig. “Not bad.”
“It was the cheapest bottle I could find at the airport,” she says.
“Which university do you go to?” I ask her.
“I’m at UBC,” she replies.
“Out west, nice. That’s a top tier university.”
“So is Westfall U,” she counters.
“True, but I made it in because of my hockey skills. Got a full scholarship.” I take another long swig and gulp along the way.
“Please, you were always smart,” she says and then she snaps her lips, drunk.
“How do you know that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes on her.
“Please, every girl in our high school knew who you were. Smart and athletic is unusual,” she notes.
“Do you always say what’s on your mind?” I ask because she is cracking me up with her candidness.
“No, absolutely not. I never drink. I’m pretty sure I’m way past drunk,” she murmurs.
“Shit,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies.
“Do you ever swear?” I ask because I remember this girl from high school. She was so. . . proper.
“What?” she asks, clearly thrown off.
“Do you use any profanities?” I clarify.
“That’s a weird question,” she says, rearing back.
“No, it isn’t. Do you say the f word?”
