Page 16 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

Every one of my teammates’ jaws practically slam against the ground.

They’re all looking at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind—which maybe I have.

Can’t a guy choose celibacy for once without being judged?

Not every decision is a good one. Exhibit A: hiding my occupation from the girl who turned out to be the daughter of my coach.

Exhibit B: making things awkward with said girl after saving her from an oncoming car.

The blonde gasps, turns her nose up, and throws her hair over her shoulder. “Your loss. I wasn’t even that interested anyways. ”

When she flounces away in her six-inch heels, Knox is trailing behind her like a lost puppy, practically licking the ground she walks on for a single scrap.

Harlan, ever the detective, ponders the whole interaction for a solid minute, connecting the dots with metaphorical red string. “Oh, I get it. You’re still caught up on that girl,” he teases, a devious smirk hooking up the corners of his lips.

How could he insinuate something like that? I mean, it’s true, but still.

Pigeon-toed panic tramples me in a flash. “Pish, am not,” I grumble, this time taking a heartier swig of beer and cringing when the lukewarm, piss-flavored liquid sloshes into my gut.

“Shit, your one-night stand?” Foster asks, plucking a spicy chicken wing from the communal basket. He’s got an anthill of greasy bar food that looks nauseating from here, but dude has an insanely fast metabolism.

My brows knit. “How do you know about that?”

He gives me a shrug, tearing off a chunk of meat from the bone and not bothering to close his mouth as he chews. “I’m observant. And nosy.”

“Yep, Harlan definitely didn’t already tell a quarter of the team,” Sutton jokes.

My best friend steeples his fingers under his chin, dismantling my half-assed lie with that 170 IQ of his. “So, hypothetically, if I told you that she just walked into the bar in a wet dream of a dress, you wouldn’t look?”

Much to my chagrin, I look immediately, and the little tendril of hope that had wiggled through the cracks wilts when Merit is, in fact, not standing at the entrance of the bar. Dress be damned. She could show up in a sweatshirt and sweatpants and I’d still be mesmerized.

Despair pistols through me, compounding the long-term tinnitus thing I have going on in my ears—or maybe that’s because the music is so loud that I can’t form a coherent thought.

My heart physically hurts. It shouldn’t, right?

Like, anatomically that has to be a concern for early onset heart failure or some shit.

I brace myself for Harlan’s endless parade of bragging, but he doesn’t even get halfway through his miniature celebration before something swipes his attention. “That’s what I thou?—”

And when I expect the final blow to bludgeon me into sad, fractured pieces, it never comes. Instead, I find him staring at something behind me, and I mirror his gaze to see Merit idling by the entrance of the bar, wearing a red bodycon dress that puts every other color to shame.

The satin material clings to every curve of her hourglass figure, and the hem ends at the middle of her thighs, leaving little to the imagination.

The cowl neckline dips rather low on her chest, which is supported by two thin spaghetti straps that disappear beneath the beachy waves of her hair.

And her makeup is relatively simple save for the bright scarlet lipstick that’s already been the sole perpetuator of three different fantasies.

God, she’s beautiful.

Sutton whistles, and even though it’s good-natured, I nearly go full attack-dog mode on his ass. “She’s the girl you’re obsessed with? Sheesh, it all makes sense now.”

“Obsessed is an understatement,” Harlan claims.

I don’t care that they’re digging into me. Right now, all I care about is going up to Merit and talking to her. If she turns me away, I’ll just work that much harder to get her attention.

I’m up and out of my seat without a second to spare, and I’m over to her in four long strides. I couldn’t tell from so far away given the dogshit lighting, but all her lacerations and bruises have mysteriously vanished.

I speak before I think—a recurring theme, unfortunately. “Your bruises.”

I can picture exactly where they were. The largest one was on her right shin, and the other was a purpling rosette on the side of her left bicep. To make matters worse, I fucking reach out to touch her arm, as if the gesture will bring her some kind of solace.

Needless to say, Merit isn’t looking for solace, and she flinches away from me—a reaction that stings like irrigating a nasty wound with alcohol.

She doesn’t want me to touch her.

Let her warm up to you, dude. She’s been through a lot. Don’t make things weird. There’s also probably a reason why she covered everything up in the first place, and it’s none of your business.

I know I probably shouldn’t be thinking this—let alone say it out loud—but I’m not going to let the opportunity slip through my fingers. “You look beautiful.”

The blush feathering over her cheeks is almost unnoticeable, like her magnitude for feeling things has dimmed since the last time we were together, and she gestures to my unripped and undirtied ensemble. “You clean up nicely yourself.”

“Merit, was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“But seriously…are you okay?” I ask softly, offering her adequate space so she doesn’t feel cornered, though I’d give anything in the world to wrap my arms around her and absorb all the pain she’s probably still feeling.

She shuffles her heels against the floorboards, her eyes pinned to a discolored stain begriming the ground. “I’m fine. I just want to forget that night happened, okay?”

How could I just forget , Merit? How do you expect me to forget about the way you felt in my arms? How do you expect me to forget about the way my heart pounded with this renewed sense of liveliness that I haven’t felt in years?

I nod in understanding. “I get it. It was traumatic. I won’t bring it up again. ”

“And thank you…for saving me.”

“Of course.”

It feels like I’ve been hit with a bullet, no exit wound. “I’m sorry for the things I said to you. I was so heated in the moment, and I lashed out.”

Her eyes flick up to me, those blue beauties sending my heart into a directionless frenzy. “I’m sorry too. I antagonized you. I didn’t even let you defend yourself. I just made all these cruel assumptions about you because I was so jealous.”

Jealous? If anything, I’m jealous of her. Of her relationship with her father—of her happy, whole family. And the sad thing is, she’ll probably never realize how good she has it.

“Trust me, you have nothing to be jealous about.”

I’m usually a great conversationalist, but I have no idea where to begin. This is one of the rawest talks we’ve ever had, and I’m not particularly inclined to unwrap layers of personal trauma tonight. I need to change the subject.

“Uh, what have you been up to lately? You know, besides…”

“Not much. Reading seems to take my mind off things,” she answers, relieved to be discussing something other than a therapy-reserved talking point.

She’s a reader? God, this girl just gets hotter and hotter.

“I didn’t know you liked to read.”

Her whole face lights up, as if nobody has ever shown interest in learning about her hobbies before. I have no idea why they wouldn’t—Merit Lawson is the most interesting person in the world. I can’t think of a better way to pass time than listening to her talk about what she loves.

“Yeah, it helps me escape from the real world.”

I understand a lot more than she thinks I do.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you read?” I inquire, half-expecting her to stray from the question altogether. It’s usually fifty-fifty on whether I can add a new, hard-earned fact into my Merit memory bank .

“Smut,” she replies without hesitation.

“Smut?” I echo, having absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.

“Softcore porn. Sometimes hardcore.”

Dear God. I think the Lord is testing me.

I smother a smile, shaking my head. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Her big shot attitude is back in full force, and she places her hands on her hips. “Why? Because I give off virgin vibes?”

“No, because you blush any time I say anything remotely sweet to you.”

As if to corroborate my statement, an adorable, pinkish tint occupies her cheeks.

It’s like life itself has bottled its very essence into her five-foot-two body, and every time I’m near her, I get this invigorating rush to soak up her light for as long as I can before I’m fated to crawl back into the darkness.

This is good. We’re getting back into the swing of things. And per the swing of things, now is the time when I use humor to deflect from the fact that I’m beginning to feel very real, scary feelings.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to be seen together? I’d hate to ruin your image,” I quip lightheartedly.

I’m expecting her to snipe me down with her famous scowl, but she doesn’t choose violence—a rare occasion, I’ve come to notice.

“Do you know what my dad would do if he found out I slept with his star player?”

After discussing book porn and being graced by her in that otherworldly dress, the last thing I need to think about is the unforgettable night we spent together.

Come on, Crew. You’ve got this. Just act cool.

And…cue the cool guy pose. I pretend to look off into the distance, stretching my arms over my head so that the hem of my T-shirt rides up. “I’m more interested in seeing if I’m a star lover.”

A snort billows out of her, but she doesn’t defuse the tension electrifying the air around us. “I’d give you two stars on Yelp. And that’s being generous.”

“Really? That’s not what you were saying that night. Or is moaning the right word?”

Expecting a stubborn rebuttal, it’s not surprising when Merit eats the distance between us, furls her fist in the collar of my shirt, and pulls me into her so that I’m at her very mercy.

I’m so caught off guard that I stand there, half-hunched over, fully leashed by the girl who spells TROUBLE in big, bold words.

Holy shit. She’s touching me. Kind of. She’s touching my shirt. I’ll never wash this bad boy ever again.

“That’s before I knew you were a hockey player, and I’m not a puck bunny.

So why don’t we both stop wasting each other’s time, okay?

Nothing more can ever happen between us,” she reiterates with a growl, gunning me down with those aquamarine eyes—the ones that tempt me like the juiciest, most delectable forbidden fruit.

There’s a hunger that carves my stomach out, that makes my mouth water in some twisted, Pavlovian response.

A cautionary warning I should heed but don’t.

I know a declaration like that should dissuade me from pursuing her, but if there’s the slightest chance I can change her mind, I have to take it.

Surprisingly, my nerves are nowhere to be seen, and my gleaned confidence reclaims its rightful throne. “Go on a date with me,” I say.

Merit appears to be at a loss for words.

I’m just grateful that she’s not using said words to rip me a new one.

Her fist quivers in my shirt, and for the first time in a long time, her eyes aren’t cold, nor are they weathered by insurmountable expectations.

They’re as wide as saucers, innocent, almost yearning to be seen.

This kind of blue is different, warmer, reminiscent of a clear, sunlit sky following the aftermath of a snowstorm.

Her arm falls away, and she uses it to hug her midsection. “You know I can’t do that, Crew.”

She almost sounds…remorseful. And fuck, does it hurt a lot more than a hate-fueled rejection would.

I don’t know what she needs right now, but I stockpile as much reassurance as I can, hoping that it’ll be enough to at least make a dent in her fortitude of worry. “Then I’ll wait, because deep down, I think you want this just as much as I do. And the thought of that terrifies you.”