G-Money
WTF? Who leaves people hanging like that?
Easy E
This is literally worse of a cliffhanger than Back to the Future II.
The rooftop pool at Ryan Seymour’s apartment is packed with people, and I don’t recognize half of them. I squeeze past a group of girls who won’t stop giggling, and I give them a polite wave when they tug on my shirt.
My hamstrings are killing me, and I’ve been nauseous since I left the rink. The two bottles of Gatorade I chugged at my apartment didn’t give me any of my strength back, and I feel like I’m crawling through hell.
“Hey, Mavvy,” Grant Everett, our second line right winger, calls out from a pink pool float. A leggy blonde is next to him, and she has her hands on his chest. “You’re a little late.”
“Where’s Hayes?” I ask. He jerks his chin toward the dessert table, and I roll my eyes. “Shocking.”
I head over to Hudson. Just as he’s about to lift a brownie to his mouth, I knock it out of his hand.
“Hey,” he exclaims, turning to glare at me. “What’s wrong with you? You’re wasting food.”
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong withyou? When were you going to tell me Emerson Hartwell isn’t some guy from BU or Michigan or wherever the fuck she went to college, but a woman who’s been playing in the ECHL for years?”
Hudson snatches up another brownie and shoves half of it in his mouth. “Don’t blame me. It’s not my fault you didn’t watch the tapes Coach sent.”
“Didyouwatch the tapes?”
“Obviously.”
“Great.” I collapse onto a wicker lounge chair that probably cost Seymour, our left defenseman, two grand. “I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I fucked this up.”
“What did you think of her?”
An hour with Emerson Hartwell, and I don’t know if I should be turned on or pissed off by her talent. I grab a beer from the cooler to my right. I pop the top off and take a long sip.
“She’s something,” I say after a minute.
“Oh no.” Hudson sits next to me. Millie, his golden retriever, runs up and nudges his hand. He scratches behind her ears and sighs. “What did you do?”
“I might have called her a fan,” I admit. “Asked if she wanted to go back to my place and acted like a total douchebag.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” I rub my jaw and take another sip of my drink. “I mean, she was standing there looking hot as hell, and I?—”
“Not relevant to the story. Keep going.”
“She’s just as guilty—she talked shit about me to Coach. Went on about how I must not know how to lead a team, all because of a mix-up when I ran into her near Coach’s office—loiteringwithout a visitor’s badge, I might add. I felt really stupid.”
“And you think she didn’t? She’s a female athlete who’s probably had to put up with that shit her entire playing career. The guy who’s supposed to be her new captain treats her the same way, and there wasn’t a lick of respect. I’d be pissed too,” he says.
“She could’ve told me who she was,” I argue.
“You could’ve watched the tapes instead of spending time with what’s-her-name last night,” he throws back. I hang my head because he’s right. “She’s a good skater, isn’t she?”
Gooddoesn’t begin to describe what I saw today.
Hartwell’s hockey skills are on a different planet, and I think I might be a little bit in love with her. I’ve never seen anyone play like that, and I have no fucking clue how she’s not already on an NHL roster.
She moves like a figure skater and has the strength of a weightlifter.
