Dad: Just gonna go cry myself to sleep. No worries.
Dad: Seriously. Forget those new skates I ordered, you dink. I’m going to give them to some random kid.
Dad: I’m kidding. Sort of.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head but still smiling. My dad takes very few things serious in life. And the only things he does take seriously are hockey and his family. But despite him joking around, I know him enough to recognize that his feelings are hurt, so I obviously type back a message.
Me: Sorry, Dad. Just been busy, and it’s hard to message you back each time when you send, like, five thousand messages a day.
Dad: It was not five thousand messages. It was, like … twenty-five.
Me: I love you. I’ll call tomorrow to check in.
Dad: You said that yesterday.
Me: And then you texted and FaceTimed me so many times in between that I didn’t feel the need.
Dad: You’re a mean little person—you know that?
Me: I love you. Go talk to Mom or Saint or something.
Dad:
Dad: All right. Fine. I love you, Isla. Be safe.
Dad: I’m a cool dad, FYI. Okay. Goodbye.
Tucking my phone into my pocket, I fight back a laugh just as someone knocks on the door.
“Be right out,” I call, though with the music so loud, I’m not entirely sure the person can even hear me.
I wash my hands extra well because this is a frat house, and just being in this room right now is disgusting.
The knock becomes more of a pounding, followed by a deep voice. “Hurry up! I gotta take a piss!”
Yanking the door open, I’m greeted by the world’s biggest douchebag.
Hendrix Hunt.
Right away, a smirk tugs at his lips. And with his dark hair that—as always—is perfectly messy yet somehow looks styled, he puts his arm over the doorway, blocking me in.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t sweet little Isla Hardy,” he drawls slowly, taunting me, just like he has all week. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your jersey on, Nineteen. Tell me, does it make Daddy proud that you followed in his footsteps, even wearing his beloved number on your back?”
It’s a shame the universe would waste such good looks on an absolute jerk like him. But here we are.
“Not tonight, Hunt,” I grumble, blowing a piece of loose hair from my face. “Besides, I thought you had to piss.”
“Always got a little time for you, Nineteen,” he coos, dipping his head lower, making a few long strands fall onto his forehead. “Does your daddy know you’re partying tonight?” In true Hendrix form, before even giving me a chance to answer, he tsks me. “He wouldn’t be very happy with you, would he?”
“Move out of my way,” I hiss, hitting him with a leveling glare. “Unless you want me to move you myself with a kick directly to your nuts.”
My words only bring a bigger smirk to his lips.
“Isla, baby, you’re just looking for reasons to touch my nuts. All you gotta do is ask nicely; I’m not shy.”
This dude infuriates me because he always has a comeback, no matter what I say. He’s so sure of himself that it’s sickening. And ever since we both arrived at this stupid hockey camp, he’s made it his job to harass me.
“Get. Out. Of. My. Fucking. Way,” I growl as my heart starts to quicken. I’m on edge already, but this asshole is making everything worse. “Now.”
