“Thank you.” I turn on my heel and walk away. I can feel Eli and Anders staring daggers at my back. I don’t get the same sensation from Charlotte, and it makes the pit of my stomach churn. Why is she being so fucking nice? If anyone should be giving me glares, it’s her.
When I get back to my room and bite into the sandwich, I groan. It’s really fucking good and the best thing we’ve eaten that isn’t take-out since we got here. The bread is clearly from a bakery, and I have no clue what cheeses she put in this thing, but it’s immaculate. I dip it in the soup, loathing how goddamn good this sandwich is and how fucking polite she was when she handed it to me.
My phone buzzes, and I groan, worrying that it’s one of the guys telling me to stop being such an asshole,again.
Jenkins:Pickup hockey game Monday @ Shipleys Rink. U in?
I really don’t know how the fuck Jenkins got into college with the way he texts. I can’t imagine his writing is much better. A hockey game is what I need. Even if most of the guys playing aren’t at our level.
Me:We’re in.
Jenkins:Harley will be there.
I roll my eyes and don’t send him a text back. Harley is a Beta we go to school with, and we may or may not have hooked up a few times. But it wasn’t anything more than that and won’t ever be anything more than that. I send a text off to the guys, letting them know the plan.
Me:Jenkins invited us to a pickup game on Monday at Shipleys.
Eli:We’re in.
Me:This sandwich is good.
Anders:You don’t deserve the grilled cheese.
Me:How’s your eye?
Anders:Charlotte kissed it and made it better.
I groan and throw the phone, wondering why it makes me so angry. Is it because I think Anders is being a dumbass, or is it something else?
Chapter thirteen
It’sgettinglate,andI’m not sure how to broach the subject of Charlotte staying the night. Not that anything needs to happen, but I just don’t want this day to end. Anders and Mikael fighting aside, today has been perfect.
We did promise Mikael that we would weight train though, plus it’s getting dark outside. I’m not sure how to keep her here, while also keeping my promise to Mikael. I’m not sure why he’s so twisted up about this, but I don’t want him to feel abandoned by us either.
We’re on the sectional, with Charlotte between the two of us wrapped up in the softest blanket we have in the house.
“We need to do some weight lifting with Mikael.”
“Do we, though?” Anders says, still pissed. I watched it all go down. He hit first, but I’m sure Mikael goaded him into doing it.
“We promised.”
Charlotte bites her bottom lip, and I wish it were my teeth. “I could watch,” she squeaks. “Or I could go home, or just wait up here. Whatever.”
“You can watch.”
“Where’s the weight room?”
“Detached garage, might want to take your blanket.” She nods, keeping it wrapped around herself as she slides her shoes on and shuffles outside. Anders is in front of her, and I’m behind, making sure she doesn’t bust her ass on any ice.
Mikael is already lifting, loud music booming in the space. Mikael glances over at us and Charlotte, thankfully holding his tongue. Charlotte just sits on the mat, wrapped up in her blanket, and quietly watches us lift. I spot Mikael, seeing as he and Anders still aren’t talking. She appreciates his form and takes the time to watch him when he isn’t able to scowl at her.
I kind of get Mikael’s hang ups. He has the most to lose out of all of us. Don’t get me wrong—playing hockey is my life goal. But if I got hurt, or it didn’t work out, I’d be okay financially. Anders has a family to go back home to. Mikael has nothing. His eggs are literally in one basket, and that is the NHL. Mikael has to work harder than all of us to be good at hockey too. I’m not even being egotistical saying that—he would admit it. He wasn’t born with an outstanding natural ability. He works hard every day. I’m not sure if Charlotte symbolizes him losing everything he’s worked for. But I worry his negativity and being a general dick is going to ruin his chances with Charlotte and us. I can’t believe he’s being so pigheaded. It all makes sense now. Why we all got along from the get go. We all share the same scent match; we’re supposed to be pack. I get that hockey is his dream, but does he really think we’d let a packmate flounder?
I’m sure it boils down to pride and proving himself, but it’s fucking annoying. I must be scowling at him as he hefts the weight above him and puts it back on the rack.
“Ease up, Becky,” he says, and I roll my eyes. My nickname causes me to forever loathe my last name, Beckford, and that it’s stuck with me all these years.
