“Really?” he asks, his eyebrow raised. “Because you were in a piss-ass mood out there. I’m not complaining. It was nice not to be the grumpiest guy on the team for an hour. But since you’re about to steal my title, I feel like I have the right to ask what crawled up your ass.”
“Just a little off tonight,” I say, going with a half truth. “I’ll be fine by the time tomorrow’s game rolls around. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
That’s an understatement, but it’s not one I want to discuss in detail.
Dutton turns to look at me, and since his bullshit-meter is top-of-the-line, he knows I’m holding something back. But before he can say a word, our bench gets even cozier.
“Gramps!” Ollie says, clapping me on the back as he drops his ass down next to mine.
I roll my eyes at the new nickname he’s christened me with. When I got home from the vet the other day and shared the news of Hazel’s impending motherhood, the guys couldn’t stop laughing their asses off, especially because Mickey’s feral freakshow of a cat is Hazel’s baby daddy. I’m pretty sure Ollie is planning a feline wedding. Now that he’s happily married, he’s convinced that those of us who aren’t coupled up are missing out. He’s on a mission to ensure happily-ever-afters for everybody in the hockey house, pets included.
“We’re celebrating at Wolfie’s. We ride in ten,” Ollie says, saluting us both before he hops off to round up the rest of the crew.
“Did he seriously say ‘We ride in ten’?” Dutton asks, shaking his head. “Wolfie’s is literally across the street. We’re just going to walk there, like normal people.”
“Well, you are,” I say, standing and stretching as I reach for my street clothes. “I’m heading back to the house.”
“Seriously?” he asks, admonishing me with that one word. “Do not make me socialize by myself. What’s the point of having an extrovert for a best friend if you’re not here to back me up in my hour of need?”
“Pretty sure eating wings with your teammates doesn’t constitute an hour of need. Besides, your girlfriend is also an extrovert. You're in good hands. You can survive one social interaction without me, and forgive me if I’m choosing takeout and video games over puking my guts up by morning.”
He sighs, and I know I’ve got him. The guy’s got a stomach made of steel, and he doesn’t envy my weak one. “Fine, but this is strike one, just so you know.”
I laugh and nod because strikes are something we’ve been giving each other since our prep school days. We were roommates for the first few years at Avonworth Prep, so we saw each other all the time. That didn’t change much during our final two years when we each got single rooms, but we’d become totally codependent at that point, so if Dutton came looking for me, and I wasn’t around, I’d find “Strike One” scrawled on the whiteboard that hung outside my door. I’d do the same to him. Three strikes is supposed to be the limit, but we’ve been friends so long, I’m sure we’re somewhere in the triple digits at that point.
“Fair enough,” I concede, standing and slipping my hoodie over my head. There’s no doubt I smell like ass right now, having played three periods of balls-to-the-wall hockey, but I’ll shower at home because I need to get out of this locker room before I crawl out of my damn skin. It’s not just the noise or the chaos. Those don’t bother me because I’m usually the one causing them. It’s not even the fact that everyone’s in a great mood while I’m in a shitty one. That happens sometimes.
The thing I can’t deal with, the thing that has me ready to lose my freaking mind?
That’s the fact that Liza’s twenty feet away from me and won’t even bother to look in my direction.
Granted, she’s not usually staring at me or even acknowledging my existence, except when she’s pointing out what an ass I am.
But everything changed last night. Or at least, I thought it did. Maybe it all changed when I accidentally opened her laptop. Hell, I think my whole life changed when she opened our dooron that very first day and my glitter prank came raining down on her instead of Ollie or one of the other guys.
All I know is that last night in the storage room with Liza was fucking phenomenal, until it ended and the look on her face nearly fucking killed me. The only thing worse than Liza hating me is Liza regretting what happened between us. On any normal night, she’d be giving me shit about spending half the game in the penalty box, but right now she’s totally engrossed in the stick she’s taping up. She could probably do that in her sleep, but she’s focusing every ounce of her energy on the mundane task and I know it’s because she’s avoiding me. That’s my cue to leave, so I tap Dutton on the shoulder and tell him to have fun tonight. Then I slip out the door before Ollie can drag me off to Wolfie’s against my will.
The walk back to the hockey house doesn’t take long. Campus is filled with people headed to parties or leaving the game, but I manage to weave through the crowds and make it back home in less than ten minutes. My house is gloriously empty, and I’m damn glad. I’m just not in the mood for anyone else’s shit tonight, probably because I’m so wrapped up in my own.
My stomach growls as soon as I walk in the door, but either something died in our foyer or I smell like a rotting corpse. I tear off my hoodie and know the answer to that question immediately, so I strip down on my way up the stairs, toss my clothes in the hamper, and step into the shower. It doesn’t take long for the water to heat up, and I let it wash over my body and relieve some of the tension in my muscles. My head is so fucked up right now, and I wish the punishing water pressure or the billowing steam could solve the puzzle that’s making my brain feel like it’s about to burst inside my skull.
I know the only solution is to talk to Liza, but even as the thought forms in my mind, I know it’s laughable. We may live together, but having a conversation in this house isn’t goingto be easy with all our roommates around. And I guess we technically work together, but there’s even less chance of us having a conversation at the Wolf’s Den than here at the hockey house. Drip is out, too, because unlike half of the population of Bainbridge University, she prefers making her own coffee at home. Hell, even if she worshiped at the altar of Drip like most people do, I doubt she’d want to meet me there to discuss whatever the hell last night was.
Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I banged my head at practice and imagined the whole thing? Maybe I just need to move on like Liza has, but some part of me needs to make sure she’s okay. Then again, she said that what happened in the equipment room was a mistake and that we should never speak of it again, so I’m pretty sure that means she wouldn’t want me slipping a note under her door or texting her just to check in.
That’s exactly what that means, asshole,I chastise myself as I turn the faucet handle, step out of the shower, and towel off. I throw some product in my hair and run my fingers through it so it won’t resemble a fucking bird’s nest tomorrow morning, then I brush my teeth and reach for my sweats.Shit. I think I left them lying on the end of my bed and I can pretty much guarantee that Hazel is now nestled on top of them like a sleepy little princess on her throne. I wrap a towel around my waist in case she tries to swipe at me when I attempt to reclaim them. My girl is the best kitty in the whole wide world, but she’s damn territorial, especially when it comes to prime napping locations. Any other time, I’d happily surrender my sweats, but they’re my last clean pair, so I have a feeling I’m in for a fight.
I step through the doorway and spot my pants immediately. Sure enough, Hazel’s camped out on my bed, too, but right now only her tail is actually on the joggers. This is a good sign. Luck is on my side. I advance toward the bed, ready to nab them and then shower her with affection so she doesn’t notice that I’vestolen her nest. It’s a good plan. A solid plan. But it all goes to shit when I hear a voice that comes out of fucking nowhere and startles the crap out of me.
10
Blue
“Hey, Blue, I?—”
My head whips toward the doorway and when I see Liza standing there like I’ve fucking conjured her, I lose my head for a second and stub my toe on the sharp corner of my bed frame. “Son of mother-freaking biscuit!” I howl as I shake out my foot to drive away the pain. I’d rather have a guy slam me up against the boards than stub my toe, or worse—get a paper cut. And don’t even get me started on hiccups. I’m pretty sure that’s how I’ll die someday.
“Did you just say ‘son of a mother-freaking biscuit’?” Liza asks, like we’re old pals just chatting about catchphrases and lingo.
