Page 21 of Home for the Hockey-Days (Cedar Rapids Raccoons)

I can’t decide.

Chris-bean-a Aguilera, or Queen Latte-fah?

I’ve been staring at the menu for longer than is considered socially acceptable, and I still can’t decide. I’m going to order what I always do. I know it. The Barbie-pink haired barista giving me sympathetic eyes knows it. And my best friend, Athena, sitting at our usual table shooting daggers into my back while she waits for me to order her first caffeine hit of the day, knows it, too. Hell, even the hero and heroine in the romance novel I’m hugging against my chest know it.

Huh. Perhaps not. Bitches Brew—the best coffee shop in town—has added new things to their menu. The Cocoa Chanel looks drool-worthy. Buttery hot chocolate with hot pink whipped cream, mini marshmallows, and edible glitter.

Ooooh. Come to mama.

But what if it’s not as good as it looks on the menu board?

Nothing is ever as good as it looks on the menu board. And it’s quite the beautiful-looking menu board. Everything in the coffee shop is pretty: striking, hot pink, and sparkly. First appearances come with a pink punch at Bitches Brew. There’s so much interesting stuff, like a pink guitar hanging from the ceiling and a pink bike mounted on the wall over a fireplace, that I almost get distracted by it all and forget I’m supposed to be ordering.

Almost. I need to focus. Turning my attention back to the menu board, I shift my weight. I need to pick something to order. It shouldn’t be this hard.

But I know my Ruth Bader-Brewsburg, their dark chocolate mocha, is delicious. I love the depth of the coffee flavor, the richness of the chocolate, and how Taryn—my favorite barista and owner of Bitches Brew—takes the time to draw a music staff and notes with cocoa powder on top of my drink.

I do this every time. Every fucking time.

I convince myself that I’m going to stray from my boring, same old, same old and try something new. It’s on the tip of my tongue, venturing out from my safe space into the unknown. But the comforting familiarity of my old favorite sinks its claws into me, just a little deeper, and I can’t stop myself from blurting out the same thing I always get.

I know one thing, though. If I don’t hurry up and bring Athena her Ariana Grande with an extra shot of Espresso Patronum, they’re never going to find my body.

“You ready to order?” Taryn flashes me her superstar grin. I’ve been coming to Bitches Brew for as long as I’ve been a student at the University of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, AKA: UCR. Three years. And for three years I’ve ordered the same thing, every single time.

Maybe today, first day of my third and senior year, is The Day.

I nod and suck in a breath. “I’ll have an Ariana Grande with an extra shot.” A quick glance over my shoulder tells me that Athena has hit DEFCON 2.

She’s starting her junior year. We met right here at the coffee shop, on our first day of college three years ago when she tried to hit on me. I was flattered, but I’m straight. She took it in stride, we got to talking, and the rest is BFF history .

She’s the Geena Davis to my Susan Sarandon, the Buffy to my Willow, the Christina Yang to my Meredith Grey.

A grunt, and a string of Spanish profanities indicates she’s escalated to DEFCON 1. “Better make it two extra shots, please, Taryn.”

Her perfectly curled pink hair bobs up and down as she nods. “And for you?” She arches a manicured brow like she’s expecting me to say something different, something new. I can’t blame her, I’ve spent more time than usual examining her new board.

I meet her eyes, warmth blooming in my cheeks. How in the name of all that’s holy does she get her eyeliner flicks so even?

The gaggle of geese hanging out around the small lake outside are honkin’ up a storm. Even they know what I’m gonna order.

I heave out a sigh. Today isn’t the day. “Ruth, please.”

Her smile softens as she nods again. “You got it. Anything else?”

She’s right. DEFCON 1 requires sugar as well as caffeine. “Hen will take the lady lips, and I’ll have a dick waffle dipped in white chocolate. Please and thank you.”

There’s no judgment in Taryn’s eyes. It’s one of the reasons Bitches Brew is so popular, it’s a safe space for all. A hot pink, glitz-and-glam safe space. I should be in charge of their marketing with such original taglines.

You wanna eat a dozen twat waffles and wash it down with a gallon of coffee? No judgment.

You do you, boo.

We can also work for six hours straight and use the free Wi-Fi when we are behind on projects and are butting up against deadlines. That one might be oddly specific to me, though somehow I doubt it.

Here, people can be their most authentic selves, without apologies. A twinge catches in my chest making my breath stutter. I don’t really know who my most authentic self is anymore.

I thought I knew my most authentic self. I thought—I don’t know what I thought—but finding the piece of paper in my dad’s study telling me that I wasn’t born a Bowen, that I’d been adopted as an infant and my parents hadn’t told me? That shook me to my core.

It still shakes my core. I’ve spent the months since trying to figure out who I really am. I’d love to say that piece of paper didn’t define me, or that it didn’t change a single thing, but it did.

It changed everything.

I no longer know who I am. I tap my card against the machine and smile through the pain shredding my insides. My parents—my adoptive parents—kept it from me for almost twenty years. I’ve only known for a couple of months. But… How can I not be changed now that I know the truth?

The almost unhappy beep of the machine suggests a problem, and I scowl, wrinkles creasing my forehead. “Can you run it again please?”

Taryn nods and hits a couple buttons before I flap my card against the end of the machine one more time. Heat creeps up my spine and into my extremities. I place my book on the counter—cover up, because there’s no shame in my smut of choice game. I know Taryn loves my hot as hell man-chest-candy covers as much as I do—then my purse.

Shit. If the card is declined again I don’t think I have another way to pay.

I purged my bag last night so it was ready to collect receipts, tubes of Chapstick, and crumbs from food I don’t eat anywhere near my purse. I thought I tossed my coin purse back into my bag, but the sinking feeling in my chest has me wondering if I left it at home .

Checking again, I confirm it. My coin purse is on my nightstand, right next to my charging vibrator and my half-empty glass of water. I close my eyes and send up a prayer. The Big Guy won’t let me down. Right?

The same “transaction denied” sound scrapes my ears and my stomach drops.

I could ask Athena to front me the cash. It’s my turn to buy, but she won’t mind. Being the daughter of a billionaire, I know she has the dough. But I’ve taken pride in being that person—you know, the one who knows who she is but who doesn’t want her for her money, or her family connections, or to get close to her delicious, hockey-playing brothers.

I love her for her. Not her last name.

“It’s okay, I got it.” A deep, velvety voice behind me sends a ripple through my body, sparking my lady bits to life.

Huh. I’d thought after all the months of neglect, apart from the occasional buzz with a battery operated boyfriend, that she’d closed up shop. Yet here she is reacting to a tall, dark, and handsome stranger behind me in line at the coffee shop. He has to be tall, dark, and handsome, right? With a voice like maple syrup, he must be.

A glance at my book cover confirms it—this is my very own meet-cute. Maybe he’s even shirtless already.

Guy saves girl from embarrassment by offering to buy her coffee. A little clichéd, it’s true, but I can totally work with clichéd. Especially if he has a romance-novel-hero sized dick.

I kinda wish I’d shaved my legs this morning. Because of course I’m going from meet-cute to mounting the hottie behind me in zero-point-three seconds.

I spin around, ready to say “I do” and cut right to my happily ever after, and my jaw drops. Sure, he’s tall, blond—not dark—and he’s handsome alright, but he’s also?—

“You can insert or tap.” Taryn’s voice barely registers from behind me .

My hand darts out, blocking his card from touching the machine. “It’s fine. I’ll just… I’m sure I have cash in here somewhere.” I jiggle my bag at him like that’ll somehow make him disappear, an alternative method of payment appear, or my vision come into focus, and it won’t be who I think it is, who I know it is, standing in front of me.

Instead, my actual not-a-douche-canoe knight in shining armor will be here to save me from caffeine withdrawal and a murderous best friend instead.

His brow arches high over his crystal blue eyes as he gives me that lopsided, jock smile that dazzles like a disco ball and makes women’s underwear spontaneously combust. But the acid in my empty stomach bubbles, stomping out any desire I felt when I first heard his voice. Before I realized who it was.

I’d rather saw my arm off than let Justin Ass pay for my breakfast.

I blink. Try to restart my brain, but his blue eyes won’t let go of me, and I don’t move my hand from the card machine. The walls are closing in around us at a snail’s pace, like a slow-motion 80’s montage in a movie, and I’m pretty sure everyone is staring at me, staring at him, waiting for me to say or do something, or even just move.

Taryn clears her throat behind me. “Girl. Sometimes you gotta let the patriarchy pay for your coffee. Call it reparations.” She moves the machine from my grasp and lets Justin tap the end. I’m still staring, mouth gaping, like another brainless idiot who loses the power of speech when a pretty hockey boy looks her way.

I look to the ceiling, to the Big Guy. This isn’t funny. Justin Ashe isn’t my romance novel hero. He’s not my happy ever after.

He’s heartburn after a bad burrito.

He’s always been the pretty boy, ever since high school. But his shoulders have filled out, and his biceps are stretching the navy-blue sweater as though it could burst at the seams like a can of Pillsbury biscuits.

I mumble an apology and a thank you—or at least I hope that’s what came out of my mouth—and move to the side, fixing my eyes on…something…anything that isn’t the man who paid for our drinks. His stare is heavier on my back than caffeine-thirsty Athena’s was, and my cheeks are scorching.

What the fuck is he even doing here anyway?

Here. In my coffee shop.

In my fucking space.

He belongs back home, in Minnesota. Not here in Iowa. He’s out of place, like a distant memory showing up out of context. Blindsided, bumfuzzled, betrayed. Ugh. I smooth down my shirt, even though it doesn’t need to be smoothed. Every cell in my body wants me to haul ass out the door but I know he’d probably follow and make a scene.

Has he been going to UCR this whole time and I had no idea? I’ve been to a couple of hockey games over the years but I can’t remember seeing him on the ice. Does he still play?

What the fuck is going on right now?

I get it, everyone is welcome in Bitches Brew, but as soon as I get the chance I’m going to add “except Justin-fucking-Ashe” in sharpie to the “Everyone Welcome” sign hanging on the front door. Yeah, it’s also pink.

“You forgot your book.”

My man-chest cover slides into view as Justin’s outstretched arm offers me my novel. I want my fucking money back. J.R. Blake, my favorite romance author, has a lot to answer for. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. Justin is not my fucking hero.

Except he kind of is since he just bought not only my caffeine, but Hen’s too, and he’s returning my current read.

He steps in front of me, still holding the book, giving it a wiggle as though to attract my attention. My face burns hotter as amusement and knowing dances in his gaze. Jerk. So I like some on-page spice with my love stories, it’s no big deal.

I could be a murderer. Or worse, I could be someone who leaves her toenail clippings next to the bathroom sink. What’s a little bit of sex between the covers? I’m a consenting adult. Or at least I would be if I could find my very own fucking hero.

Justin is still smirking at me. Judgmental asshat.

I snatch the book from his grasp and jam it into my purse. A frown pinches his flawless face, and he purses his lips.

Shit. My stomach tightens. Does he think we’re going to talk now? To start a conversation at the counter while I wait for my drinks?

Hard pass.

Hundred percent not going to happen, buddy. Just because you saved me from certain death with Athena for further delayed caffeination doesn’t mean we’re in some way even-steven. Not even close.

I toss a look at Taryn, convinced she’s stalling, taking longer than she normally would to make the drinks, to give me time to talk to the pretty-boy hockey player still scowling at me.

Doesn’t he remember me?

Another twitch in my stomach. Fuck.

Wouldn’t that be the kick-in-the-crotch cherry on top? We went to the same high school. Hell, we even ran in the same circles for years. I haven’t changed all that much. Not enough for him not to recognize me. Unless I really was that unmemorable to him.

Fuck.

Does he really not know who I am?

I’m not sure what I want more—him to remember me, or to forget I ever existed. One thing’s for certain, though, I am not getting into a conversation with this man. I don’t care how pretty his eyes are, or how my nether regions react to the gravelly timbre of his voice.

Once bitten, twice shy—that’s the old adage, right?

Justin Ashe took a chunk out of my best friend…out of me in high school. And while I’m not shy, exactly, bet your ass I’m not giving him the chance to do it again. I narrow my eyes. Maybe I can scare him away by trying to emulate Athena’s resting bitch face. She is the master of saying everything she needs to with just an icy stare.

I’m pretty sure my face is as bright pink as the Bitches Brew décor, but my insides are as black as the accent walls. I need this guy out of my space.

He opens his mouth to speak, and Taryn announces my order is ready at the end of the coffee bar. Thank fuck for that.

If he’d said anything to me, I’m not sure what I’d have done. The only words I have for him are venom-coated and fuelled by the misdirected anger simmering in my veins. Maybe not so misdirected. Sure, I’ve been pissed at my parents—adoptive parents—for months, but my rage at Justin Ashe has spanned years and feels just as acute as it did back in high school.

He’s deserving of my burning rage. Even if he looks…like that.

I gratefully accept the tray from Taryn and grunt my thanks once again at Douchebag Magee before I make my way to Athena like a T-rex is chasing me for my dick waffle. Silly T-rex. Everyone knows I never share my dick waffles.

“We’re leaving.” The long strap of my purse slips over the curve of my shoulder and slides down my arm, making the bag land on the floor at my feet with a heavy thud like it’s punctuating my sentence. With the tray balanced in both hands, I can’t pick it up yet, so I shift my toes toward it like my foot can communicate my irritation that it fell. My bangs are in my eyes, and my skin is on fire .

I feel his gaze on my body, probing, curious, amused.

Athena sits back in her chair and tosses me a smirk. “You’re holding plates. Are we stealing plates? I don’t think Taryn would let us back if we steal her shit.”

I groan. She’s right. Taryn did me dirty. She always gives us paper cups so we can eat and run, but today? Today she’s given us the oversized, not at all portable mugs. Dammit. The pink-haired cupid is way off the mark with her arrow this morning. I want to take the sharp-ended weapon and shove it up Justin’s ass.

I place the tray onto the table with slightly too much force, and push my bangs out of my irritated eyeballs.

After a long sip of her coffee, Athena jerks her chin at what I assume is Justin still standing at the counter behind me. “Wanna talk about that?”

I’d rather sever my own carotid artery and watch myself bleed to death on the floor of the coffee shop. I pick up my chocolate-covered dick waffle and lick off the white chocolate jizz at the top before taking a huge bite and pointing to my mouth as if to say, “can’t talk, eating.”

“Found out anything about your birth parents yet?”

My girl is persistent, I’ll give her that.

I point to my mouth again.

Chewing very studiously, I pull out my phone and open the local classifieds. I’ve searched every single day over the summer for a job. I want a job. I need a job. I need something to do outside of school, not only for the cash, but so I can avoid going back home to Minnesota as much as possible, to my parents—my adoptive parents. Something that gives me a legitimate reason to ignore my phone when their name flashes on the screen. Something to distract me from the hurricane of feelings tearing up my mind.

I shift in my seat and swear I can feel the pressure of his stare against my back. Something must show on my face because Hen raises an eyebrow.

“It’s okay. We’ve all had crushes on hockey players before.” She pats my hand, condescension and knowing hanging in the air between us. I wonder who she’s talking about having had a crush on. She hates hockey. Having brothers living and breathing the sport turned her off it long ago—or so she says. Maybe there’s another reason she won’t step into the rink to watch a game. That’s a thread that’ll need to be pulled on in the future.

She picks up her lady lips pastry and drags her tongue across the seam before making moaning sexy sex noises at its deliciousness. She’s tongue fucking the slit right there in front of me, in front of everyone.

“People are staring.” I’m convinced the dude at Athena’s three o’clock is going to come in his pants if she doesn’t stop putting on a show.

She teases where the clit would be—if it were real lady lips—with the tip of her tongue, and the dude groans. Her smirk only grows.

“I don’t have a crush on anyone.” I take another bite of my dick before my high school self claws out of the box in my chest and spills the ancient history tea to my best friend.

Some things need to remain in the past, and Justin-fucking-Ass is one of them.

For Xavier’s big brother, Roman’s (Why Choose) story, you’re going to want to read My Brother’s Teammates.

Here’s Charlotte’s first chapter: