Page 15 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

SO MUCH FOR SECOND CHANCES

CREW

M erit Lawson has become the forefront of every pulse-ratcheting and heart-fluttering feeling in my hockey-wired brain.

I haven’t been able to think clearly ever since the night we almost died.

And no, it’s not because I was afraid of going toward the light.

It’s because holding her in my arms was the closest I’d ever felt to peace, and I’m a selfish bastard for wanting to chase that little slice of paradise.

She hasn’t talked to me since that night—not that I was really expecting her to. We never even exchanged numbers. A stupid, delusional part of me has been trying to manifest her back into my life like she’ll have a sudden change of heart.

I wanted to follow her into her house that night, but my rationale stopped me before I ended up straining things between her and her father.

The last thing I want to do is complicate her family dynamic.

Hell, I practically invited myself to occupy a permanent seat at the dining table—a decision which she had no say in.

I don’t think saving her from a rogue car is going to make up for the way I infiltrated her life .

I’m still sore from our near-death experience, but thankfully, the wide-ranging bruises are on their way to healing.

I scratch my thumbnail against a pitted groove of woodgrain, keeping my head low as the intoxicated crowd showers the bar in a crescendo of unintelligible shouts.

Some of the guys on the team wanted to take advantage of the discounted beer pitchers, so now I’m a prisoner of Maple Grove’s very own hole-in-the-wall on this extremely uneventful Friday night.

The game is tomorrow, and aside from the added pressure of having to perform for a scout, my brain refuses to change the Merit station.

What is it about this girl? How does she get all my wires crossed? Wires that have never been crossed in my twenty-one years of life, mind you.

The giant glass of beer in front of me remains untouched, and I watch apathetically as deep vents of carbonation bubble to the top, collecting beneath a dome of pale foam.

I’m always down for a drink or two, but right now, drowning myself in alcohol is the last thing I want to do.

My teammates, however, couldn’t care less as they polish off the first pitcher and ask for a second.

Harlan, Foster, Axel, Sutton, Knox—he invited himself, okay?—and I have dubbed this table the hockey team’s.

Foster poses the first question of the night, mischief rippling across his giddy expression. “Alright, would you rather have penis-sized fingers or a finger-sized penis?”

Foster is the Mustang’s renowned goalie, and for good reason.

He rarely lets a shot get past him. His lithe frame helps with his agility and speed, even when he’s weighed down by all that extra gear.

Honestly, he could probably beat me as the team’s fastest skater.

He’s on the quiet side, but he’s very talkative once you get to know him.

And he’s the complete opposite of a textbook hockey player—amicable, smells good, can’t lie for shit.

His parents are really pressuring him to pursue a career in medicine.

He comes from a traditional Asian American household, and I’ve caught the tail end of Mandarin-spoken arguments over the phone between him and his parents more than once.

“What are the logistics here? Can you still pee out of that small of a dick?” Axel inquires, sounding far too concerned.

Axel doesn’t join us on many outings. Not only is he a killer defenseman, but he also plays on the football team, so he floats between social groups.

He’s a man of many talents. He’s also one of those charismatic guys who makes friends wherever he goes.

One time, he was at this crazy house party that almost got shut down by the cops, and he used his voodoo magic to not only save the party but somehow convince the officers to stick around for a drink.

He’s going to be an unstoppable sales representative in the future.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he inherits his dad’s technology corporation in Puerto Rico.

“Wouldn’t know. Ask Sutton.”

Sutton flips him the bird. “I’d strangle you right now if we weren’t in public.”

It’s a good thing he doesn’t—that would be like a Tom and Jerry fight sequence. Foster as the comically small, anthropomorphic mouse. Sutton as the big, mean cat who somehow has an arsenal of state-banned weapons.

Sutton is a great defenseman—always plays with the team’s best interest at heart, always punctual, always reliable.

He does tend to keep to himself, and I’d be lying if I said that the lumberjack beard and the six-five height didn’t intimidate me.

How does a twenty-two-year-old grow that much facial hair?

I can barely pass off a five o’clock shadow.

“Are the penis-sized fingers erect? How would you be able to pick up stuff?” Harlan follows up.

Sutton snorts. “Why are you thinking so hard about this?”

“This might be a hypothetical, but you never know.”

Knox chimes in. Unfortunately. He’s the equivalent of the dog shit that I accidentally stepped in yesterday on my way to class.

“Fingers, definitely. The size of my cock is perfect,” he announces smugly, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head.

Barf.

“To be fair, Knox does use his cock more than his fingers,” Axel jibes.

“In what sense?” Sutton’s curiosity is well-intentioned, though I’m sure he’s about to regret his question in two seconds.

“Have you ever seen him use a keyboard? Dude takes like five seconds to find a single key.”

The table combusts into laughter at my enemy’s expense, and Harlan is to the point of tears as he smacks his palm on the table. I haven’t spoken once since we sat down. It feels like there’s a pinhole in the wall, and it’s steadily leaking monoxide poisoning into my airways.

Foster—quick to catch on to my uncharacteristic silence—slings his arm over my shoulder, a frown quirking his lips while he balances his half-full drink in the other hand. “What’s the matter, C? You worried about the game tomorrow?”

A heavy weight expands in my chest, and an unnamable sadness suffuses my veins in droves. I can’t even begin to explain its genesis.

“No,” I mutter curtly, abandoning my splinter-picking to drag my fingernail through the condensation on my glass. The cold is a nice reprieve from the sauna-like heat of the room.

Axel pipes up. “Then why the long face? We got through our first week. This should be a night for celebration, right?”

My flimsy words grate against my throat. “I just?—”

Suddenly, a girl teleports to our table, standing above me with a plunging neckline, heavy kohl eyeliner, and waist-length blonde hair, exuding what I can only describe as a “look at me” aura.

She’s attractive in the conventional sense, but I barely even spare her a glance.

The rest of the team, however, is salivating over her like mutts.

Her cloying perfume pollutes my nostrils in brimstone, and as respectfully as possible, I want to stick a ten-foot pole between us so that I don’t have to entertain whatever agenda she has tonight.

But before she can say anything, Knox’s obnoxious voice rings in my eardrums, confirming my theory that he must have some genetic defect that makes me burn with rage every time he opens that fat trap of his. Which is a lot.

So I burn.

A lot.

“Hey,” he drawls with a sizable helping of arrogance, nodding his head at her.

She ignores him.

Internally, I laugh. Externally, laughing would not be the appropriate response in this situation, as my therapist would say. So, I take the moral high ground and choose to keep my comments to myself.

Though karma isn’t far behind because when the blonde does speak, she addresses me, batting her eyelashes coyly. “Crew, right? Hi, I’m Kayla. President of Theta.”

I finally take a sip from my drink. “Uh, hi.”

“I can’t wait to watch the game tomorrow. I’ve seen you at practice—you’re really good,” she purrs, leaning over the table so her cleavage hangs out and accosts my vision.

It’s an empty compliment, I’m aware. Growing up in the limelight, I’ve become an expert at spotting disingenuity from a mile away.

I can feel Knox’s indignant stare on the back of my neck, red-hot, as if he’s trying to telepathically make my head explode.

Now, B.M. Crew—Before Merit Crew—would have been all over this chick the second she said hello, but right now, I couldn’t be less interested.

In fact, my dick is as flaccid as a piece of overcooked spaghetti.

It’s clear that she’s angling for something physical instead of actually getting to know me.

Even if my thoughts weren’t dominated by the girl who wants nothing to do with me, I wouldn’t partake.

Oh my God. I think my frontal lobe just developed.

Am I, Crew Calloway, seeking emotional intimacy over a roll in the sheets to make up for my father’s nonexistent love?

Have I become a… feelings …whore? No, that’s not possible.

I’m just…not feeling myself because I’m distracted.

Yeah. This has nothing to do with my dad or Merit. I’m perfectly fine. I’M FINE.

“Thanks,” I say, although the tension in my voice belies my indifferent exterior. I keep my eyes focused forward, leaving her in my side view while I watch highlights from the Mustangs’ last season.

But Little Miss Oblivious doesn’t admit defeat. No, she decides to enter my line of sight completely, biting on her lower lip as if it’ll trigger some caveman urge of mine.

“Maybe you could show me some of your moves,” she offers.

Annoyance builds an unruly pit in my stomach, subsequently sponging up what little appetite I had left. “I’m not really a moves-sharing kind of guy.”