Page 68 of Hockey Halloween

Tristan

A woman walks across the stage in black boots, black leggings, a black sweater dress, and black-rimmed glasses, as if she’s the star of the goth-themed stage.

As a Filipina, Ligaya easily stands out in this ordinary suburb of Southwest Ohio.

With those full lips, doe eyes, supple skin, and take-no-prisoners attitude, she’s a freaking knockout.

A knockout ready to rip my head off.

She shakes my hand. Making contact with her soft palm zings awareness through my body. The principal’s mouth is moving and the audience seems to be applauding, but all I can register is her .

Ligaya Torres went from an infuriatingly pretty girl to a stunningly beautiful and undeniably sexy woman.

A glance downward reveals how well she fills her dress.

I look away, focusing on a spot over the high school crowd’s heads.

Another glimpse of Ligaya’s curves will turn this public service presentation into a gawking fest. Not that I can admit how gorgeous she is out loud.

Trading insults instead of offering praise comes more naturally.

“As always, you are as sharp as a skate blade,” I whisper for her ears only.

“Wish I could say the same, Turd,” she mutters like a ventriloquist. How does she do that? Her mouth barely shifts from the stiff smile. After a beat, Ligaya adds, “Unfortunately, you’re about as sharp as a knife at a toddler’s tea party.”

I snort in amusement, covering my mouth to hold back a laugh.

She looks up at me, her nose crinkling slightly and her lips tilting at the corners.

I lean in, getting a whiff of her scent, feminine but not flowery.

Herbal almost. The aroma tickles my memory of graduation night when we found each other alone, while the rest of the party had passed out or gone home.

And that kiss. Christ, that kiss was hot.

My straying mind failed to notice when the auditorium got dismissed.

What pulls me to the present is a blur of black.

One second Ligaya is beside me, the next she’s ten feet away heading to another hallway.

“Excuse me,” I say to Principal Reinbacher.

My long strides make up ground with little effort because Ligaya is all of 5’2. No taller than when she was as a freshman but with the hourglass curves of a woman.

Tiny enough to pick up with one hand, but vicious enough to kick me if I tried.

Ligaya slips into a room. I follow her and close the door behind me. When she realizes what I’ve done, her mouth opens in shock.

Or anger.

It’s too dark in here to be sure.

“You are as annoying today as you’ve always been,” she barks, her fists pressed against her waist. “What do you want?”

I have a flash of the girl Ligaya was in high school, even prettier when she was riled up. Except now she’s a woman whose sass keeps you on your toes and whose curves could stop traffic.

What do I want? What did I expect to accomplish by following her into this room instead of heading to the parking lot and putting Centerstone High in my rearview mirror where it belongs?

The only answer that makes sense is that I can’t very well let her have the last word. Old habits die hard.

“Had to make sure the shock of seeing me didn’t affect you too much. You looked a bit wobbly walking away, Terror. Not to mention, it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye,” I accuse with a tsk sound.

She huffs. “I’m busy tidying up the costume closet.” Ligaya gestures at the garments hanging on rolling racks along the walls of a space no bigger than a regular bedroom.

“I didn’t realize you worked here. Not like here.” I indicate the room. “At the high school, I mean.”

I hate it when Ligaya’s right. I really do sound like a turd.

“Why would you know where I work?” She brushes a strand away from her forehead. Two swipes. It’s a familiar gesture. Something she’s always done and I’ve always noticed.

I ignore the question and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Want to grab coffee some time? A meeting of the esteemed alumni of Centerstone High School is overdue,” I say casually, emphasizing the way we were introduced on the stage.

“How can I resist? You have the charm of the IRS guy who audited my parents’ laundromat.” Ligaya’s voice is teasing as she takes a step closer.

“Charmed by IRS auditors? Sounds like you need to go out more,” I quip, taking half a step closer too.

We’re nearly toe to toe.

“How are Cathy and Orlando?” I pause on the snarky tone because I’m genuinely curious about her parents. It didn’t matter how much Ligaya and I bickered, her parents were always nice to me and my sister, Olivia.

“Pretty good, tax audits aside,” she answers simply, accepting my truce. “They watch Mavericks hockey all the time.”

“And you, Terror? Do you watch me play for the Mavericks?”

“I’d rather sit through a three-hour PowerPoint on the history of paperclips than watch you play hockey.”

“You always were a weirdo.”

Ligaya rolls her eyes like she’s exasperated with me, yet a smile lingers.

“And your sister? Is she still active military?”

Ligaya gives a vague nod and pushes her glasses up her nose. Somehow the dark rim makes her eyes pop and her lips seem extra plump and pink. Her tongue grazes her bottom lip and the gloss of moisture tugs at my cock.

Who knew that nerdy glasses, a messy bun, and an irritated glare would do it for me?

I’m used to women who get dolled up to attract hockey players.

Ligaya might not give a shit about impressing anyone, but she makes my body hot and my fingers tingle.

I’m tempted to tug on her hair and check if her lush mouth tastes as good as it did all those years ago.

“Tristan, are you listening to me?” Her question refocuses my attention. Whatever she was saying had turned into a distant hum when she licked her lips.

“Huh? Yeah, sure.”

“Then move over. I left my bag by the stage.” She squeezes by me and turns the knob. Wiggles it. Bangs it a bit. Wiggles again.

“Shit, you locked us in!”

“No way,” I declare before trying the door myself. “We can call the front desk.” I lift my cell to search for the school’s main number.

“This closet is a freaking dead zone,” Ligaya says dejectedly. She bangs on the door and yells for attention. I join her. After a few minutes of screaming, she slumps.

“Everyone is in their classrooms, but the drama club will let us out.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching in a classroom right now?”

“I have an unassigned time block in the morning. A free period because it’s my only break of the day. I run the drama club through lunch hour.”

“When does lunch start?”

She looks at her watch. “In an hour.”