Page 13 of Hockey Halloween

Xavier

When I invited my lab partner to the party, I didn’t think she’d show up. She hasn’t said why she won’t attend hockey parties, but there’s a reason she stays away. Curiosity finally got the best of me and I needed to know.

Even though she’s out of my league—she comes from money and has the words “good girl” tattooed on her face—there’s something riveting about her.

I wish I could put my finger on what it is and why she was so adamant about not coming to a hockey party.

One of her best friends is dating a former player, and she’s been to a few games, so it can’t be that she doesn’t like the sport.

Maybe she wants to avoid a player on the team, which wouldn’t explain her coming to the games.

And the few glimpses I’ve caught of her while attending, she seemed to have a good time.

She’s a tough nut to crack, not letting her guard down too low.

Which is why I invited her to the party. As a challenge.

Mostly to myself to see if I could break down her walls. Without knowing what those walls are, besides the whole “good girl” ones, it might be tough. But I’m nothing if not determined.

I’ll admit her costume is clever, but it does nothing to obscure her identity or her beauty.

The navy mask doesn’t hide her piercing sky blue eyes, which were a dead giveaway even from across the street.

Even behind her glasses during class, the color is striking.

I’ve got a front and center view of them during lab.

She wears color contacts on occasion, but they’re nothing compared to her proper color.

She usually has her caramel locks tied back in a braid, but today it’s a loose ponytail. The white shirt and navy pants are more fitted than her usual attire, but they enhance the entire package.

“Laitmon, you’re not wearing your entire costume, which isn’t part of the deal. Ready to admit defeat yet?”

“No.” The word blasts from my mouth, even though part of me wants to give in, tell them they win, if only so I don’t have to wear the stupid pumpkin head ever again. But I’ve built a reputation with my teammates, and I won’t back down now. Especially in front of Delia Weidman.

My answer earns me snickers and a “Go put it on” from Harris, senior forward and captain.

And because I hate admitting defeat, I prepare to leave the kitchen to retrieve the stupid head that completes my costume.

Turning toward the hallway, Diego Martinez is there, the oversized pumpkin head in his hands, a sinister smile on his face. I want to scrape it off with my knuckles.

No, fighting isn’t the answer. I’m better than my past.

Besides, the rest of the team wouldn’t let me get away with injuring our goalie. I’d never live it down.

Toeing the line, staying on the straight and narrow, hasn’t been easy these past few years at Aspenridge. I’ve let my past get the better of me one too many times. However, if I want to play hockey, my attitude needs to remain in check.

Without hockey, I’m the kid who grew up in the meth house.

Without hockey, I’m the kid who won’t amount to anything.

Without hockey, I’m nothing.

I rip the beer I handed Delia from her hands, downing half of it before thrusting it back at her. With a confused expression, she takes it back. Later, I’ll explain my behavior. When I get her alone.

If I get her alone .

It’s a long shot at best. A breakaway. A professional hockey career.

Maybe not quite that dramatic, but I get the sense I’d have to ease her into it. Not like she’d give me the for anything more than an invite to a hockey party. At least there are other people around.

“You gotta put it on, Laitmon. That was the deal.” Martinez holds it out to me.

With a glance at Delia, I shove the stupid thing on my head, adjusting it so I can see through the eyeholes. It’s dark and stinks like plastic. It’s not that I can’t breathe properly, but it’s huge, awkward, and stupidly heavy for oversized plastic. And probably makes me look like a fool.

“How long does he have to wear it?” Delia asks. The eyeholes don’t allow for me to see much, and her voice only gives away her curiosity, not her feelings about it.

“The entire party,” Harris utters.

“That wasn’t the deal,” I grit out, not sure if the sound is muffled to them. My voice echoes against the edges of the head, loud to my ears, but I don’t know how it comes across to others. No one else tried it on.

“What bet did he lose for this punishment?”

Not caring who I piss off or what other havoc they’ll wreak on me, I push the head off before they answer her question. With a glare in each of their directions, I mutter, “Don’t.”

This isn’t the way tonight was supposed to play out.

I had a skeleton costume picked out, but then the guys bet me I couldn’t go an entire game without shooting my mouth.

I made it to the third period, biting my tongue to the point it bled.

Until a freshman pushed an opponent into the boards, earning himself a penalty when we were already down a man for another stupid penalty, and I forgot.

I forgot I was supposed to be keeping my thoughts to myself.

I didn’t say anything everyone else wasn’t thinking, but the point was I was supposed to keep my mouth shut.

They played on my weakness and won. It’s only bothering me because of the stupid costume they chose. What grown adult wants to be a pumpkin for Halloween? Even if it’s “cooler” than an overstuffed, oversized puffy thing one of them thought would be a good idea.

“He’s salty because we know him better than he thinks we do,” Digal confesses.

“And because he can’t keep his thoughts on the inside,” Martinez remarks. “But it’s all in good fun.”

“Right,” I deadpan with an eye roll. I hold up the pumpkin head. “Fun, my ass.”

A ruckus in the entryway interrupts our conversation. Within a minute, Cody McGuire, a former team member, appears in the doorway of the kitchen, his girlfriend, Liliana, at his side. He’s dressed as a maple moose, our college mascot. Ironically, he makes it work. “Let the party commence.”

High-fives are shared among the players. He was a senior last year but didn’t finish his classes, so he’s back this year to do so. He can’t play hockey, but he’s a huge supporter of the team.

His appearance gives me the perfect distraction I need.

Fingering two more bottles of the Halloween ale someone brought, I lace Delia’s fingers with my empty one, not waiting for her permission to tug her behind me. If she puts up a fight, I won’t push her, but maybe she trusts me enough to follow willingly.

The thought is laughable.

What woman trusts me? Slim to none.

Except Delia doesn’t pull her hand away, and when I walk toward the back of the house, she keeps pace with me.

All kinds of characters fill the game room. At least two sexy nurses, a 1920s flapper, and of course, the obligatory bunnies in hockey jerseys. What a creative choice.

Not.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding. I can’t believe the transformation. It’s like a different house.”

“Wait, you’ve been here before?” I ask. “When?” How did I not know this?

The lights are dimmed to showcase the decorations, but I don’t miss the way her cheeks flush red. A bright red. Damn, I want to know the story .

“Change of plans.” Her hand still in mine, we exit the game room and head for the stairs. Her palm is clammy, but she makes no move to let it go, as if she’d follow me wherever I wanted to take her.

It’s a heady feeling, but I can’t process my emotions now. I’m on a mission.

I lead the way to my bedroom. Once inside, I drop her hand and place the beers on my desk. Delia stands stock still, her face still beet red, her eyes widened in shock. It takes exactly forty-five seconds for reality to register.

“Is this your bedroom?” she squeals, her gaze zipping around the small space.

I was the last one in this year, so I got the smallest room. It’s a mansion compared to the cramped corner of the living room I had growing up. It’s smaller than the dorm rooms I’ve lived in, but since I don’t have to share any of the space, it’s never once felt confining.

“Yep. All mine.”

“But what are we doing up here? The party’s downstairs.”

I point to the beers. “How about we have our own party?” I don’t think about the consequences the words will have until after they spew from my mouth. I’m not sure I’ll ever learn the lesson of keeping my thoughts inside, even with this stupid pumpkin costume I’m supposed to be wearing.

Delia’s face pales, and if she ran from the room, reported me to campus security, I’d only have myself to blame. Not that any reports she made would be confounded, but she’d probably have the upper hand. With my track record, she’d win anything she wanted.

“Is this why you invited me to the party?” The question is a whisper.

The right thing to do would be to let her go back to the party while I stay upstairs. I should at least open the door. I don’t want her to think I’m keeping her here against her will. I might have a record, but I’m not a monster.

Not wanting to blurt out the first thing coming to mind, I sit on the edge of the bed, composing what I want to say.

“Truthfully, I think you’re cool and wanted to get to know you outside of class.

I didn’t expect you to come.” Her brows rise at my statement, but it doesn’t deter me from continuing.

“I’m glad you came so we could hang out. ”

“In your bedroom alone?” she sasses, her arms crossing over her chest. I don’t let my vision fall to how it pushes her breasts up.

Damn, she’s got me there.

“It’s a little loud downstairs.” It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the whole truth. “When were you at the hockey house?”

“Two—nope. I’m not talking about it.” She slams her lips shut.

I rise to my feet, stopping inches away from her but still crowding her personal space.

The nice thing to do would be to step backward, but I’m not a nice guy.

The only thing I’ve got to lose is the chance of getting to know her better.

She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who fabricates and spreads rumors.

“It can’t be more embarrassing than wearing a pumpkin on your head. ”

“It’s not that bad,” she tries, but she can’t say it with a straight face. “Still no.”

My mind attempts to fill in the pieces. “You’re friends with Fairley-Ferguson, so it must have been when McGuire lived here. Was it a party?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Why is everyone their last name to you?”

I open my mouth to answer, but think better of it. “How badly do you want to know?”

“Not badly enough for me to tell you my secret, if that’s your angle.”

Busted. She’s too smart, another reason she’s out of my league.

I chuckle. “Darn, but I had to try. Want a beer?” I use the bottle opener on the wall and open both, handing her one. She accepts it tentatively, but doesn’t take a sip. “Do you not drink beer?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “On occasion.”

“Would you prefer something else?” I didn’t give her an option to choose what she wanted, deciding by grabbing the beers I wanted. I am failing at being any good at this. Whatever this is.

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Too many bad experiences?” I guess. When her skin pales whiter, I’ve hit the nail on the head. “But it’s college. Don’t we all?” I’ve had my fair share of drunken nights, made a fool out of myself, even got a DWI. I’m not proud of them, but they all taught me something.

“One awful experience was enough for me.”

“So what’s your nonalcoholic drink of choice? I’m sure we’ve got something downstairs for you.”

“Iced tea lemonade.”

I question her with a quirk of my brow. “Really?”

“Yep. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Suddenly, I’ve got an inkling to try it.