“Move,” Ryker barks as he moves past me, pushing my shoulder along the way.
No surprise there.
It wouldn’t be my life if a day went by without a shove here or a carefully crafted insult there. To expect anything else from him, or anyone else for that matter, would be foolish.
Today, though, it feels different. The tension is hitting before I make it through the door. It’s in the way the music blares louder than usual, in how the lockers slam a little harder, how no one notices me step into the room with my crate of clean towels.
Finals is tomorrow. The moment that determines whether or not they’re going all the way. Many of them have been here before since the teamhasgone to nationals four years in a row. But, while the rookies have plenty of time to showcase themselves to pro scouts, the seniors—Kane, Mountain, Alex, and a handful of others—know this is their last shot.
So it’s more than a game for them.
I set the crate down, trying my damnedest not to breathe too deeply. Hell, even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. But, just my luck, a stick falls over behind me, clattering against the floor. All eyes are on me in an instant.
“If we lose tomorrow, it’s going to be her fucking fault,” a rookie says.
“She’s bad luck,” another follows.
“Why don’t you stop breathing around our equipment before one of us ends up benched like Jackson,” a third joins in.
Well, that didn’t last long now, did it?
They stand from in front of their stalls and slowly make their way toward me.
“Hey,” a sharp voice cuts through the tension.
They turn to find the owner of the voice, and I follow their gaze, craning my neck to look around their large frames. Damn hockey players. Tall and massively built. Not all of them, but these three have surely been drinking GMO-filled milk since infancy.
Alex stands on the other side of the locker room, pulling his jersey over his head and yanking it into place.
“I get it. She’s a bitch and we hate her, but cut it out,” he orders in some half-assed attempt at keeping up his end of the bargain.
I roll my eyes.Seriously?This jerk.What kind of defense is that?
“We have more important shit to focus on.” Alex glares around at his teammates, looking them each in the eye. “Like kicking Baymont’s ass.”
The room quiets as they give him their undivided attention.
“I get it. We’re down a man. Jackson was… a good player. But so is everyone else, and we can bring this home. But not if we’ve got our heads up our asses.”
I stare on, actually shocked. Maybe there is more to Alex Williamsburg than just hockey, obnoxious charm, and sexual prowess.
Not that I care.
But I’ve heard the stories. The girls talk about him like heinvented orgasms. They act like he’s God’s gift to earth, and he eats up every second of it.
I don’t get the hype. I mean… sure. He’s hot. Annoyingly hot with a frame that’s impossible not to notice. Broad shoulders, insanely defined arms with veins cutting down his forearms like they’ve got somewhere to be. The type of body that makes walls seem optional. Like he could hold you there with one hand and not break a sweat.
Hair that always looks like someone just tugged on it—just messy enough to look intentional. That stupid perfect jaw. And then his voice—smug in the worst way.
He’s the kind of hot that gets girls in trouble. But I’m not one of them. I won’t fall for it… I know better. He’s just another spoiled, overhyped, emotionally constipated jock.
“Do you want to win?” He glances around, reaching out to slap a closed fist against Kane’s chest.
Kane makes eye contact with me, his jaw set in that scowl he seems to reserve only for me. Then I look at Bryden. He doesn’t notice me, too busy suiting up.
He’s the only one that doesn’t look at me as if he hates me, but the blankness in his eyes isn’t much better. If anything, it feels worse. At least with the others, I don’t have to guess at how they feel about me. Bryden… not so much.
“Huh?” Alex continues. “Do you want to win? Do you want to go to nationals?”
