1
BEATRICE
“Choose one,” Sienna demands, holding out a box full of wrapped gifts. I know exactly what they are, and I narrow my eyes at her.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” I mutter as I reach out and select one from the middle.
“It’s about damn time, is what it is,” Sienna, my best friend and salon manager, states happily.
She’s been trying to get me to one of these things for as long as I can remember.
Today is her birthday, and the LA Vipers are playing at home. It’s a big game too, apparently. Basically, I didn’t stand a chance in hell of getting out of it.
“It’s going to ruin my outfit,” I complain as I rip into the paper. “No one will care if I don’t wear anything hockey related.”
“I will,” she argues, the box tucked against one hip and her free hand on the other as she gives me the look that secured her both the job at my salon and the position of my best friend a few years back. “You know the others won’t complain.”
“Good for them,” I mutter as I let the gift-wrapping float to the floor and hold up the jersey I selected.
Donnelly. Number seventy-seven.
I bet he’s an asshole.
The only thing I ever see of hockey players is them lording it up as if they’re better than everyone else.
“Well, go on then. Put it on,” Sienna encourages.
With a groan of irritation, I follow the birthday girl’s orders.
The second she sees my back in the mirror behind me, she sniggers.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she forces out through her giggles.
“I’m not wearing this if you’re just going to laugh at me. What’s so funny?”
“It’s nothing, really,” she argues. I glare at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Fine. It’s just funny because he’s totally your type.”
“An arrogant athlete is not my type.”
“You never know if you haven’t tested one out. Have you never seen a photo of him?”
I shrug.
“Oh, just you wait.”
“I’d rather not,” I deadpan as she drags me out of her apartment before I have a chance to pull the jersey off. We’re meeting the others at a restaurant before heading to the arena for the game. Just because Sienna is already head to toe in green and white, it doesn’t mean I need to be.
“You’re going to love the boy aquarium, and you know it,” she states as the elevator doors close behind us.
I mutter some kind of agreement, but the truth is, anything to do with sport is my worst nightmare. Playing, watching…none of it is my thing.
“Don’t you dare,” Sienna warns once we’re in the back of the rideshare and I make a move to pull the jersey off.
My eyes flick to the birthday crown on her head, and I smirk. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”
Sienna sticks her tongue out at me before settling in for the short journey to the bar.
