Page 18 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)
I receive the same outrage from the still half-naked hockey team, but instead of a little impromptu rendezvous with my archenemy, I run into a different player this time—a brunet with a physique that could give an Abercrombie & Fitch model a run for his money.
He eyes me like an emaciated coyote circling sun-bleached carrion.
“Back for seconds?” he asks, his tone ripe with flirtation.
“No,” I say, trying to sidestep him. I’m so not in the mood right now.
When he smiles, it’s smarmy, and the sight of it makes my stomach roll.
“Come on, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Oh, hell no. If this creep doesn’t get away from me in the next two seconds, I’ll knee him in his shrimp dick.
And I’m about to do just that when I hear a clicking sound from behind me.
Lo and behold, when I turn around, Crew has teleported to my side, repeating that same clicking with his tongue. A warning.
“Back off, Volesky. Not her. Never her ,” he growls, the muscles in his chest clenching with a quiet kind of power, tributaries of bluish veins lining his arms. The anger in his voice is surprisingly terrifying, dredged from deep within his gut.
Crew has at least a few inches over this guy, and judging by body mass, about thirty pounds on him.
Volesky scoffs, but he doesn’t have the balls to stand up to Crew. Even if he did, he’d lose.
His attitude shifts, and he mimics some crudely apologetic imitation. “I was just being friendly.”
The collective breath in the locker room is bated as everyone stares at the altercation waiting to happen.
There are no phones whipped out in search of virality, no hoots or hollers egging them on—just pure fear in witness of their captain’s authority.
I’ve never seen Crew so angry before. He looks like he’s seconds away from clocking Volesky in the jaw.
For the first time since he intervened, Crew makes a show of stepping into Volesky—enough to make the other man stumble backwards over his feet. A disgraced dog in the presence of a wolf, a pack leader, a threat .
“If I ever catch you talking to her again, I’ll rearrange your fucking face across the ice, do you understand?”
Why is this awakening something inside me? No! Bad, Merit. This is a dick-swinging contest and nothing more. So what if Crew puts some weird claim on you? That’s exactly what your dad told him to do. It doesn’t mean anything.
When Volesky doesn’t respond, Crew shoots his hand out against the lockers, the slam reverberating so loudly that I’m afraid the noise will attract my dad’s attention.
Crew comes centimeters away from his teammate’s face—his lips pulled back from his incisors as they flash beneath the fluorescents—and he vibrates with rage. “Did I stutter?”
“No, Captain,” Volesky whispers, the tips of his ears turning red from shame.
“Speak up. Say it with your full chest.”
“No, Captain,” he repeats louder this time, head bowed and eyes transfixed to the sodden tiles underfoot. “I’ll never talk to her again.”
“Good, now apologize to her,” Crew spits, a rumble bellowing in his throat—the sound more potent than downing a shot of tequila or inhaling smelling salts. It’s jarring, and my legs nearly fold underneath me.
“I’m sorry,” Volesky blubbers.
Jeez. Remind me to never get on Crew’s bad side.
Crew looks utterly disgusted. “Get out of my goddamn sight.”
With his tail between his legs, Volesky lumbers into the shadows, and the rest of the team returns to their tasks like a testosterone bomb wasn’t about to annihilate the entire building and torch any form of life within the fallout zone.
Did that seriously just happen? Oh my God. This is so embarrassing. I don’t need some hockey player fighting my battles for me, especially if said hockey player is Crew. And now the entire team probably views me as some damsel in distress that needs to be saved.
When the locker room resumes its bustling, I stomp my way in front of Crew and push him squarely in those inflatable pecs of his. “I was handling everything myself!”
Unfortunately, my push is the equivalent of a light nudge to him. “Oh, really? It didn’t look like it from where I was standing.”
“Nobody asked for your opinion.”
“So what? You were just going to let him talk to you like that? His behavior was completely unacceptable.”
It feels like my head is swimming through gossamer webs, my thoughts masticated to the point where I’m entirely too reactive to discredit his previous claim.
If my solution to everything is physical violence, I’m going to end up in jail before I’m twenty-five.
And people like me don’t do well in jail.
As much as I hate to admit it, Crew did me a solid by putting Volesky in his place. Who knows how many innocent girls he’s catcalled without repercussions.
“Stop trying to play hero all the time,” I snap.
His leftover fury hasn’t eddied. In fact, it’s grown to the size of a tropical hurricane. “I don’t play hero because I think you’re some helpless damsel who can’t handle herself. I play hero because you shouldn’t have to handle assholes like Volesky by yourself.”
My belly pirouettes at his sentiment—a cocktail of lust and admiration sidelining my rational senses—and I’m one wrong move away from disregarding my father’s words altogether and jumping Crew Calloway’s bones in front of his teammates.
I shouldn’t be swooning. I should be…brooding! Yeah! I wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for Crew.
Stripped of a good comeback, I settle for a begrudging “thanks” before beginning my march toward the exit, feeling like I’ve been gutted down the middle with a hunting knife .
But of course, Crew’s lack of social awareness and affinity for getting on my nerves intercedes my departure because his hand encircles my wrist before I can escape.
“Wait, why did you even come in here?” he asks me.
I’m about to tell him to sit on my middle finger and rotate when I get a brilliant, evil idea. If I want to be a good leader, I have to compromise, and I think I know just how to get what I want.
Ugh, and for Crew to get what he wants.
I may have wanted to jump ship the moment that I found out I had to work with the Minnesota Mustangs, but this fundraiser is important.
I’m not the only one who is affected by it—thousands of kids are counting on me.
I have a duty to uphold, and it supersedes my fragile ego.
The only other person my dad will listen to is Crew, and if I can get him on my side, maybe there’s a chance for the hockey team and the fundraiser committee to live in harmony.
“Actually, I need your help,” I admit.
Crew slowly lets go of my wrist, hackles raised. “Oh, so now you need my help?”
“Look, MU hosts a fundraiser every year, and this year, I’m head chair.
We’re raising money for impoverished schools to have access to hockey programs. My dad doesn’t want anything to do with it, but you’re team captain.
You’re the only person who stands a chance at convincing him.
This could be crucial for the success of the campaign.
If students see that the hockey team is involved, our sales will skyrocket. ”
Crew ponders my proposition—still distractingly shirtless—and rubs a hand down his chiseled abdominals, making sure I get a front row seat. A desperate call for attention.
A desperately hot call for attention.
Seriously, Merit?
Knowing him, I should’ve expected what comes out of his mouth next, but I had prayed that he’d take the moral high road and help me out of the kindness of his heart.
I was wrong.
“What do I get in return?”
Fuck, I don’t know. What does this guy want? Money? A lifetime supply of H?agen-Dazs?
An exasperated sigh shudders out of my lungs. It’s like I’m trying to negotiate with a toddler. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t even pretend to think about it—he already knows. Actually, I suspect that he’s known this entire time. I suddenly regret bringing this up. What if he wants me to dress up as his own personal maid and attend to his needs twenty-four-seven? I’d rather gargle with glass.
“I want that date,” Crew drawls, capitalizing on my generosity, his eyes listing conspicuously over my lips.
Something inside me dies. Hope, self-respect…all the above. This man has a loaded gun against my temple, and he’s playing Russian roulette with my life. If my father were to ever find out about this, he might slap a chastity belt on me until I’m well into my thirties.
My lips part to object, though Crew is already walking away from me, and I blame my dad’s lack of involvement for making him so fearless.
“And you’re wearing my jersey to the game tonight.”