Page 18 of Lovefool

When his hand squeezes mine, aftershocks surge through my body, and my heart flares in my chest as if it’s a fire that only ignites at the hands of its creator. Flickering flames scraping higher and higher the closer I am to him, ready to engulf everything in its path. Beautiful ruination.

“You’re too young to be a repeat offender,” he volleys back.

Finally. We’re getting somewhere.

A full-belly laugh erupts out of me, and I’m momentarily transported back to the night I gave Buford a housewarming gift, when it was just Sutton and me hidden under a duvet of darkness, holed up in our own little microcosm simply because we were both in the right place at the right time. I want to experience that again, but with less bugs, obviously.

However, it doesn’t slip my mind that I’m still responsible for writing a series of completely unbiased news articles about MU’s hockey team, and nobody will want to read the one where I get my Hootie Blowfished or whatever.

A promotion and front-page publicity are on the line here, but I’m starting to catch feelings. Me! The feelings dodger and recovering commitment-phobe. Ugh, this sucks. Why did Tamara have to pick me? We have a dozen journalists on the team.

“I’m sorry,” Sutton says out of nowhere, interrupting my would-be swan dive into a mental grenade.

He’s sorry?

I shake my head, my ponytail swinging behind me like a metronome. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dark curls fall into his eyes as he looks down at me, and I have to smother the urge to run my hands through his luscious mane.

“Yeah, I did. I jumped to conclusions about your character, and I misjudged you entirely. It never crossed my mind that you might be in trouble.”

“If you didn’t show up to our date, I’d follow a similar line of thinking. It was reckless of me to even protest that day, knowing my history and my proclivity for getting on the law’s bad side. Our date should’ve taken priority over everything else.”

“I would’ve hated if you had to sit on the sidelines because you were worried about a silly date, Lake. A date that can be rescheduled. If you’re serious about protesting, you shouldn’t have to dim your interests in order to accommodate me,” Sutton explains, transferring an inexplicable warmth to me that I haven’t felt in ages. It smokes out the semipermanent anxiety half-fused to the lining of my stomach—an ulcer-like growth that’s been there ever since I left my sister to bleed out in the living room.

“Next time, just think about bringing backup.”

A snort shoots out of me before I can stop it. “Let me guess. You’re the backup?”

“Protests can get dangerous. Nobody will mess with you if you have a bodyguard at your side.”

Nobody in my life has ever taken an interest in my protesting. Certainly not my mom, not Ellaria (for capiophobic reasons), and not Buford, because that man doesn’t have the gall to stand up for anything he believes in. It means a lot that Sutton doesn’t shy away from that part of my lifestyle. It’s an acquired taste. Some might describe it as gritty with a hint of nutmeg.

Suddenly, over Sutton’s very muscular shoulder, I lock eyes with Coach Lawson as if he’s a broken specter in the distance, and the nerves clock in for another grueling shift at the overthinking factory.

My retired co-conspirator catches on to the shift in my mood instantaneously.

He lowers his hand, severing contact. “Why are you here, Lake?”

A shaky grimace graces my lips, and my cool-girl reputation undergoes a less-cool transformation. “Surprise! I’m going to be your shadow for the next few months.”

8

A TOTALLY PLATONIC PROPOSITION

SUTTON

“My shadow?” I exclaim, confusion claiming purchase inside of me.

Before Lake has the chance to elaborate, Coach Lawson joins the conversation, his stentorian voice ricocheting off the rink’s reinforced interior.

“Lake here is going to be writing a series of articles about the team to generate traffic and exposure for the ongoing season,” Coach says, his tone ripe with undue pride, and he shakes my shoulders.

My jaw has permanently glued itself to the ground, and the blush festering in Lake’s cheeks tells me she wasn’t expecting to get outed like that before her first day of work.

This girl—the one who has occupied every floorspace in my brain with her witty remarks and Maldivian-blue eyes and tough outer shell that I’m determined to crack—is going to be working with the Mustangs for the foreseeable semester. In close proximity. At every practice. At every game. Studying me and my teammates as if the hockey player species has just been discovered on the Galapagos Islands.

I’m fucked. Oh, I’m so fucked.