“Okay,” I sigh, obviously not fully sold on this. I know the Rebels didn’t mean any harm to Xander, but I’m also afraid of how the league will accept him next season. Of course, he’s doing good work, but a small and ugly part of me doesn’t care about that.
Not, when it means some assholes will single him out with dirty hits for it.
“You never answered my question,” Xander points out, and it takes me a while to catch on to what he means.
I chuckle softly when I realize he’s trying to steer us away from the heavy topic and pull me out of my own head.
“How many dates I introduced to my roommates? It’s a big, fat zero.”
“Zero guys or zerodates?” Xander probes, and I snort at his adamancy.
“What is it with the twenty questions, Xanxan? Zeropeople.”
I laugh when I lift my head and find Xander gaping at me like I just told him I’ve been living as a monk all throughout college.
“Don’t worry, I’m not celibate.”
“You certainly didn’t give me that impression when I laid you out in the back of your car.”
“Shut up!” I swat at him as I feel my cheeks flush. “I never hooked up with anyone I felt comfortable enough with to invite over. My roommates are pretty cool—don’t tell them I said that! But they’re also...a bit unique sometimes. I wouldn’t want some stupid jock to make fun of Linden or Oliver, because then I would have to deck them and it would turn into this whole thing.”
Xander’s lips twitch, and I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he replies, but now there’s a full-blown grin plastered all over his face. His hands grab me before I can protest, and the next thing I know he’s peppering my face with small kisses.
“What the– get off of me!” I laugh, but thankfully he doesn’t listen.
Xander, March 8th
Iring the doorbell, then hurry to hold up the bags of chips and popcorn. It’s good that I did, because Nicko tears the door open only a few seconds later.
“Pregame has already started!” he throws at me, then hurries back inside. He stops to whirl around after two steps and snatches the popcorn from my hands.
“Hello to you too,” I snort and shake my head, pulling the door shut. The rest of the team decided to watch the last game of the regular season together. For that I’d have been right on time. I prefer this, though, even when Linden and Yardley are also sitting on the couch. Nicko has claimed a two-seater near the windows, open bag of popcorn on his lap, enraptured by the interviews on screen.
I sink into the cushions next to him.
“Hello, Xander,” Linden smiles shyly, and I return the gesture gladly. Since I’ve become a regular visitor at his shelter, he’s forgiven my comments. I still take Lila out for walks whenever I can, though by now he’s introduced me to some other dogs.
“Ready to have your fate decided for you, Soft?” Yardley snarks. He grabs a handful of popcorn from Nicko’s bag and throws it straight into his mouth.
I raise a brow at him and crunch on a couple of chips before answering him.
“This won’t decide anything for me. I’ve done what I can, now it’s out of m–”
“Shhh! The game is starting!” Nicko interrupts us, reaching up to cover my mouth with his hand. I want to protest, but relent when he sneaks a few pieces of popcorn between my teeth.
The game is boring as hell. BostonU puts the pressure on high from the start, scoring in the first ten minutes. I groan and let my head sink against Nicko’s shoulder. I didn’t expect anything else. BostonU has been chasing us all season, waiting to pull ahead. Considering our last few losses, they finally took their chance now.
On the other hand, the New Hampshire Wildcats had terrible luck ever since we beat them, simmering at the bottom of the conference.
Immediately after the scoring player finishes his celebration lap, Boston clams up, keeping to the back. Likewise, the Wildcats seem to be nearly frozen in place, barely shuffling to make sure no one gets through their tightly knit defense—again. Unfortunately, it also kills any chance for a breakaway.
“So you’re really out of the…tournament? Because they won?” Linden asks halfway through the third period. His voice is gentle, like he’s worried to hurt me with his question.
I turn my head to look at him. There’s nothing happening anyhow; less than ten minutes left and BostonU is glued to the puck, just waiting out the time. In theory a solid strategy, but it means that this game is practically done, and with it the Bats’ chance to get to the Frozen Four.
“Yes. Only the first and second places in the conferences advance to the regionals. And now,” I nod at the TV, “Boston is above us in ranking.”
