Page 17 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

NAKED AND AFRAID

MERIT

L ove isn’t in the cards for me. I have too much at stake, and I’m not about to throw everything away for the first guy who wants to give me the world.

I’ve heard the spiel before. I’d rather never experience any romantic relationship again than have to feel the slow atrophy of my heart—how it was drained of compassion before necrosis infected what little remained.

Crew’s sentiment was shocking, but that’s all it was— a sentiment . Words don’t carry the same weight as actions do. I need to focus on what’s important right now, and that’s getting this fundraiser off the ground. My whole marketing class is counting on me.

So, I metaphorically grab the bull by the horns, imbue myself with as much confidence as I can, and head straight for my father’s office with a color-coordinated PowerPoint in tow.

But to breach said territory, I first have to claw my way through a battlefield of flaccid penises.

Will I possibly scar myself with what I’m about to see in there? Yes.

This is a suicide mission. I, Merit Lawson, may never be the same again if I manage to make it out alive .

When I barge my way into the men’s locker room, I’m immediately hit with a waft of sweat, Old Spice, body odor, and a mustiness that’s probably already seeped into the drywall. Despite there being plenty of showers, it smells like nobody in here has ever heard of soap or water.

Resisting a gag, I careen past naked hockey players, ignoring their scandalized shouts as I narrow my gaze on my father’s emblazoned door sign glimmering from ten feet away.

Steam clots the air, coddling the room in a moist heat that’s nearly tar-like to breathe through.

The competing side conversations raise an octave, blurring together into one nonsensical clamor of noise.

Everyone moves out of my way like they’re scared of being plowed down, except for one particularly rock-hard body that I end up slamming into halfway through my one-woman mission. And judging by the unmistakable scent of arrogance, I don’t have to wonder who interrupted my trek.

Even with my four-inch heels that, yes, I did buy to aid my conquest in being a successful businesswoman, I still have to glance up at the Neanderthal responsible for stranding me in the middle of a woman’s worst nightmare.

Crew Calloway.

There’s a towel slung low on his hips that emphasizes his pronounced V-line, and it takes some superhuman strength not to let my eyes wander below the belt.

His torso looks better wet as each mountain ridge of muscle glistens underneath a light mist. A thin stream of water even snakes down the divot in his heaven-sent abs, merging into the neatly kempt happy trail that’s grade-A catnip to my stupid, hormonal ovaries.

This is bad. Oh, this is really bad. Control yourself, woman! He’s just a man with a conventionally attractive physique.

“If you wanted an excuse to see me naked again, you could’ve just asked,” Crew says, his damp hair falling into his eyes when he inclines his head. I want to wipe that self-satisfied smirk right off his face. Or attack it with my lips.

Shit, I need to be sedated.

“If I see anything I haven’t seen before, I’ll throw a nickel at it,” I hiss, stamping down the pressure budding south of the border and shouldering past him to reduce my Crew exposure as much as possible.

I don’t get very far with his freakish reflexes and broad frame.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why not a dollar?”

“You’re not worth that much.”

“Luckily for you, Princess, you can have all this for free.”

My stomach lurches up my throat. “Ugh, I’d rather gag myself.”

Crew drags his tongue over his teeth. “Ooh, kinky. Can I watch?”

Grumbling, I punctuate my annoyance with a light shove to his stomach, and he finally grants me passage, though his eyes follow me every step of the way—hungry, possessive, half-lidded.

Cognizance crawls up the vertebrae of my spine, and no matter how hard I try to break free from Crew’s spell, lust pools in my belly like rainwater plinking into a cenote.

I feel like I’m about to pass out, and it’s not from the heat.

I knock on my father’s office door, announce my presence, and slip inside the safety zone before Crew gets any other creative ideas.

There’s no saying what would’ve happened if he touched me looking like…

that . Vibrators aren’t even satisfactory anymore.

I was flicking the bean last night for a whole hour and still didn’t get anywhere.

But one glance at Crew Calloway and poof , my clothes fly off like they’re tearaways.

My dad looks up from his work and takes off his reading glasses. “Merit?”

I wave awkwardly. “Hi, Dad. Um, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I wanted to ask you something. ”

His brow quirks. “And this couldn’t have waited until after school?”

According to Mrs. Burke, no, no it could not. I’m pretty sure that woman would sacrifice her firstborn child to make this fundraiser run smoothly.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, wringing my hands behind my back.

“It’s fine, pumpkin. Next time, though, if it’s that important, call me, okay? I don’t want you walking around in the men’s locker room.”

No need to tell me twice.

Anxiety strikes a chord within me, gearing my pulse into overdrive. My heart is operating at an immeasurable cadence, and potential disappointment breaks over the cloud-studded horizon in gunmetal gray.

Suddenly, I’m roasting like a pig. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. This is my dad. His love for me overshadows his hunger for victory, right?

“Uh, so, I’m taking a marketing class this semester, and I’m head chair of MU’s fundraiser this year.”

“That’s fantastic news, Merit.”

“Right. Well, we’re trying to raise money for inner-city schools to have access to certain sports programs, and Mrs. Burke decided to focus on hockey,” I squeak, wiping my clammy palms on my pants.

My father’s hard to read sometimes. He doesn’t look frustrated, he just looks…constipated?

“Mm-hm.”

Oh, God. Here it comes. The big finale. Just spit it out.

“And I was hoping that this fundraiser could be a joint effort with the Mustangs. You know, to really drive sales.”

“ Mm-hm. ”

Uh. What does that mean? My mental sirens are going off like crazy right now. Nobody gets between my dad and his players. Nobody. I should’ve quit while I was ahead.

There’s a trench whittled between his impassive brows, his mouth pulled into a straight line to convey what I’m assuming is thinly veiled disapproval.

I feel so small and helpless, even though I’m head chair.

Like there’s the weight of the world on my shoulders, and one ungracious fall off my pedestal is about to provoke a groundbreaking cataclysm.

Maybe I’m digging myself a deeper hole, but I don’t hesitate to pull out all the stops.

“It could be really good for the team too! I created this PowerPoint showing how participation will directly affect ticket sales for the season. It’s also for a great cause.

If the hockey team gets involved in more school-related events, it could foster a closer community within the student body, and students who aren’t avid hockey fans will be more likely to attend games. ”

My dad’s not normally an emotional person.

He’s hardened, guarded—I take after him in that way.

At least, I do now. But standing here before him, rambling on a tangent with truly no clue on how I’m supposed to pull all this off, failure spawns in the cavern of my chest, overcrowding the heart that expends itself to make everyone else happy.

My father blows out a sigh as he stands up, dwarfing me in his shadow. “I’m sorry, pumpkin. It’s just not possible this season. The team needs to be solely focused on hockey, and they can’t do that if I have them making bake sale brownies to help your marketing class.”

I’ve been arguing with my dad ever since I could talk.

Not about important stuff, obviously. Whether I was begging him for a Strawberry Shortcake doll or a pint of ice cream after dinner, I learned that what he says goes, and trying to change his mind is a fruitless endeavor.

He’s strict, but it’s only because he loves me .

I don’t know how else to plead my case. Whipping out the PowerPoint now seems like a harebrained decision. “But…”

“I wish I could help, I do. You’re raising money for a good cause, but piling extra responsibilities onto my players is only going to impact their performances.

The Mustangs have a reputation to uphold.

We made it to the Frozen Four last season and lost at the second semifinal.

We have the best shot at making it to the championship game with Crew as captain. ”

Crew, Crew, Crew. It’s all about Crew.

Damn, Merit. Even your dad prioritizes hockey over you. That’s depressing.

Now is not the time, brain.

I’m not hankering for an argument. Mrs. Burke shouldn’t have put all the pressure on me. If she was so invested in making this work out, maybe she should’ve been the one to speak with my dad. There’s nothing else I can do.

Resigned, I accept defeat. “Okay. Sorry for wasting your time, Dad.”

He walks around his desk and pulls me into a hug, though it’s not comforting in the least. “You’ve got this. I know you’ll be able to raise enough money all on your own. If there was more that I could do, you know I would,” he whispers, rubbing ministrations on my back.

“Yeah,” I lie, unable to staunch the hurt. Even sutures and practiced hands couldn’t close the wound that’s opened because of his rejection. “I know.”

Trudging out of my dad’s office with a “no” is like one hellish walk of shame. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Mrs. Burke and my classmates. They were counting on me, and I let them down. Maybe I don’t deserve to be head chair.