Page 61 of Lovefool

“We take games very seriously. For a majority of players, their careers depend on whether or not they perform to a scout’s expectations. Pressure comes with the territory, and a lot of times, it can cloud self-judgment. I’m not impervious to pregame jitters. I like to remind myself that whether we win or lose, the world will keep spinning. Success isn’t linear, you know? As a team, sometimes we suffer, but the hardships we overcome only make us stronger.”

My jaw practically slams against the table. For someone who’s inclined to act like the world is ending when the slightest inconvenience comes my way, Sutton’s mindset is very eye-opening. No wonder the guy is always calm.

“What are you grateful for?” I ask.

His hand voluntarily—or involuntarily—squeezes mine, and warmth settles in the bottom of my gut like sediment sinking into a lake-dwelling forest of algae. Anticipation has its finger on the invisible trigger, and my heart rattles in the brittle amphitheater of my chest.

“I don’t know how interesting of an article this would make, but I’m—there’s this girl, yeah? She’s stunning, and she has this smile that takes the wind out of me every time I see it. Her hair is like gold silk, she smells like farm-fresh strawberries, and don’t even get me started on her personality. She’s my silver lining when days are dark.”

Goddammit, Lake. Crying on the job is definitely not professional!

I nod robotically, trying to blink back tears while looking like I’m not totally destroyed by his confession. All the saliva in my mouth seems to have evaporated, and the heat that courses through me is back for the kill, intent on plastering the armpits of my tight button-up to my underarms.

My voice trembles. “She sounds amazing.”

“She is. You should meet her sometime. I think the two of you would get along great.”

I don’t get the chance to respond before Sutton crooks his finger and beckons me closer like he has some juicy dirt that would greatly enhance the quality of my article.

Foolishly, I withdraw my hand to lean forward, and his fast reflexes allow him to grab my tie and pull my body halfway across the table. The chair underneath me shoots out and screeches against the floor, my balance suspended in Sutton’s grasp.

I freeze as if I’m some defenseless prey caught in the eyeline of a hungry predator, while all those previous, sappy emotions bow for their curtain call.

I try to maintain some semblance of calm, though to little avail. “Care to provide a name, Mr. Whittaker?”

The nearly horizontal position of my body plus the strain of displacing my weight makes my cleavage burst against the neckline of my shirt, and Sutton’s eyes follow the curve of my neck with carnal desire, as if he’s mentally marking off every pit stop he can suck a hickey into.

“She knows who she is,” he drawls, his tone mutating into a growl that instructs me to press my thighs together. If anyone walked in right now, they’d get a face full of my lace-clad ass. My pencil skirt is school-appropriate, but not in this capacity.

Fuck, I need him to lay me on this table and have his fill.

“I hope she knows how much of a cock-tease you are,” I jest.

He leans in far enough that his lips skim the shell of my ear. “Au contraire, I think she fucking loves it.”

22

REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD

SUTTON

There’s something about game day that’s invigorating—the showy fanfare, the obnoxiously loud noise level of commentators’ patter, the competitive air that’s so tangible I could choke on it. A lot of the guys dread playing high-pressure games, but I view it as an outlet to finally show the world how hard I’ve been working.

It’s been a few weeks of consistent wins for the Mustangs, and this is the game that determines whether we make it to the Frozen Four. We won our conference tournament, won the regional semifinal against the New Hampshire Hellcats, and now it all comes down to the regional final. This could guarantee us a spot in collegiate hockey’s biggest competition.

Keeping the team’s winning streak alive is important, but today’s anxiety comes from the idea of performing in front of a special someone. Stupid, considering she’s been at every game since analyzing our strategy with that notebook of doom she carries around.

I stand in the tunnel of a rink away from home, whispering the top five things I’m grateful for before the introduction procession starts and our team takes the ice.

I’m grateful for my dad and all the hard work he does to keep people safe.

I’m grateful for my friends, who continue to be there for me despite their own busy schedules.

I’m grateful for Coach Lawson and his words of encouragement, even if they’re a little abrasive at times. It just means he believes in me.

I’m grateful for my health, well-being, and financial security. I’m in a very privileged place right now where I don’t have to struggle to simply stay afloat.

And lastly, I’m grateful for Lake Capitano. She makes me so unbelievably ecstatic, and there was a point in my life where I was getting worried that I forgot what true happiness felt like. She scares all the gray clouds away when I’m with her. She’s a shot of sunlight in the darkest of hours—an attestation of hope’s resilient nature in the face of eternal suffering.