“What do I think?” A wide smile split my face, and I could only hope I didn’t look like too much of a goofball, grinning from ear to ear as my heart soared. “Are you serious? I’d lovethat.”
“What are you doing here?”
My heart froze mid-soar at the sound of the heavily accented voice.
“Should we go?” I asked Tommy, doing my best to hold on to my wide smile. “Like, right now?”
“Yeah, sure, but hold up. First, let me introduce you to somebody. He’s going to be hella jealous!”
Before I could protest, Tommy pulled me into his side to talk to the person who’d interrupted our important conversation about me maybe coming back to his house. “Hey-hey, Rustanov, wassup?! You probably don’t know each other, but this is?—”
“I know who she is,” Artyom said to Tommy.
While staring at me.
As if on cue, a couple of other Yolks skated up, falling in on either side of Artyom like hyenas attending to a cartoon villain.
“Oh, you two...” Tommy glanced between the two of us, his happy expression lacing with confusion. “...know each other?”
Did I say my heart was soaring earlier? Now, it nose-dived into my stomach. Like some kind of plane crash.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“No, not really....”I threw Artyom a pleading look, silently begging him not to ruin everything I’d been hoping for with Tommy ever since I spotted him at the back-to-school fair.
“Da, we met in Berlin,” Artyom answered Tommy without looking away from me.
“Right, right, we did!” I backpedaled furiously, trying not to look like a complete liar. “Artyom was playing for Team Germany, and my brother, Paul, and I were there cheering for Team USA. But Germany won the match, thanks to Artyom. So, yay for them.”
I held my breath, hoping that maybe a compliment would get Artyom to play along with me instead of ruining my chance to go home with Tommy.
“This is correct,” Artyom said in response to my revisionist history. “My team won against Team USA.”
I let out a breath of relief.
Until Artyom added, “And then, she offered to fuck me later that night. I believe she is what you Americans are calling slut bunny. No, that is not the correct word....” Artyom pinched his chin in his hand and raised his eyes with a considering look. “Puck bunny—da? This is what we are calling these girls who fuck us only because we are hockey players? This is correct?”
The words hit me like a slap to the face. My skin prickled, hot and mortified, and in an instant, it felt like every single person in the arena had turned to stare. At me.
“Excuse me?” I managed to choke out, my voice trembling with a mix of indignation and panic.
Meanwhile, both the hockey hyenas let out obnoxious snickers, and one of them assured him, “Yeah, that’s definitely what we call them!”
“Well, um… like I said, great game.” I turned back to Tommy, my voice straining under the weight of pretending that Artyom Rustanov hadn’t turned our enthusiastic, one-on-one conversation into a toxic cesspool of male double standards. “Maybe I’ll see you later? Like we were?—”
“Da, later we are having after-game party at my place. You should stop by,” Artyom said with an elegant nod of his dark head. “You can offer your pussy to Hanson again. And any other hockey players who want it.”
I sucked in a breath. God, it was like getting punched in the gut by a blizzard.
I didn’t know whether to be alarmed or impressed by how polite he sounded while eviscerating me in front of Tommy.
Artyom actually had the nerve to look down at me with an expectant look, as if he was patiently awaiting my answer to his politely toned but super-gross invitation.
I tried to open my mouth to answer. Tried and failed.
The truth was, my reserve of courage had already been hovering around empty when I made myself come out on the ice to congratulate Tommy. I found out, in the unable to come up with a clapback way, that I had nothing left in the tank.
