Page 19 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!

CREW

W hen I saw Merit in the men’s locker room, it felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over me.

I’ve never been possessive over any girl before, but she’s a different story.

The moment Volesky started getting up in her business, the creature inside of me snapped .

Not just because I’m some territorial asshole claiming her in front of my teammates (which I am), but because my mother taught me that no man should ever speak to a woman like that.

And I’m in a privileged position where I can call out blatant sexism like that without consequence.

I wanted to do a lot more than tell him off. Fuck, I wanted to break his jaw so that he’d have to eat through a straw for the next three months. I wanted to bash his head against the lockers and watch the blood run out. It was like I lost all control over my emotions. A total blackout.

Tonight, that rage is going to fuel me on the ice.

From my position in the tunnel, I watch as the stands fill with eager students decked out in white and maroon merchandise, some toting foam fingers while others hug rolled-up posters underneath their arms. The air is charged with anticipation, harpooned by frenzied shouts from the masses.

This game has the possibility to set a precedence for the rest of the season. I need to play like my life fucking depends on it—because it does. The scout is here somewhere. If I don’t make a good first impression, I can kiss my dream of making it to the NHL goodbye.

Even with the rink situated in a fully enclosed space, the negative-degree chill still slips beneath my hockey gear and caresses my body in an incorporeal embrace of ice.

I’m nervous as fuck. My stomach has been a mess all day, I haven’t been able to sit still, and I could barely focus on my statistics homework. Then Merit blindsided me by showing up in the men’s locker room and things really went haywire.

Am I glad that she’s coming to the game tonight?

Yeah. Am I worried that she’s going to distract me?

Yeah. Will I regret making such a stupid deal with her that could very likely cost me my future?

Maybe. If we’re working together in close quarters for an entire semester, I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself.

I know I’m a goddamn dog for admitting this, but while she stood there and yelled at me, I was praying that she didn’t notice the half chub under my towel. I think I’m slowly discovering things about myself that I don’t like knowing—like how submissive I am with the right woman.

I try my best to modulate my breathing, but those meditation exercises that my therapist recommended aren’t doing jack shit.

My pulse gallops, anxiety cleaves through me like a hacksaw hewing bone, and my brain goes completely dark while I wait for impending doom to submerge the entire arena in a treacherous abyssal zone. I feel like I’m going to pass out.

Breathe, Crew. Ground yourself. Practice the 5-4-3-2-1 method.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and will the world to slow down, letting the hammering of my heart remind me that I’m present, I’m safe, I’m alive .

What do you hear?

I hear the rumble of the crowd and the hushed voices of my teammates.

What do you smell?

The bite of artificial ice. A hint of rubber masquerading underneath the clean, pristine air.

What do you taste?

Mint from my gum.

What do you feel?

Hot. Cold. Antsy. So wound up that my thoughts won’t stop racing.

What do you see?

When I open my eyes, I can only see the lip of the rink from beyond the tunnel, but a familiar voice—one that I could pick out in a room full of mindless chatter—beckons me like a siren’s call, and I dazedly turn around to find Merit talking with her father a few feet away.

She’s listening attentively to whatever he’s saying, and I curb a chuckle when I realize that she’s probably the only person in this entire arena not dressed up in school colors. I know a Merit sighting should probably jumpstart my nerves, but I’m surprisingly calm right now.

Her dad rubs her arm before walking away, and I seize the moment, waddling over to her on my skates.

“You’re here,” I say in awe, committing this exact still frame to memory as I make a mental note of her ambrosial perfume and the adorable ponytail that swings behind her like a pendulum.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” she banters, and the sound of her syrupy voice soothes the raging tide of trepidation inside me—its once vicious waves demoted to a gentle ebb and flow that carries away silt and sediment and surly unease .

I chuckle. “Yeah, I guess…”

And then I notice it—the tacky, magnified rat decal on the front of her pink sweatshirt. The little dude is sitting on a toadstool, wearing a strawberry hat and playing the tambourine. A far cry from my white-and-maroon jersey that she was supposed to wear.

“What’s with the giant rat?” I ask, gesturing to her questionable clothing choice.

She glances down at her sweatshirt. “This isn’t a rat. It’s an opossum.”

“A what?”

“You know, an opossum. They’re the only marsupial in North America.”

It’s like she’s speaking a different language. Though, by virtue of some incredible critical thinking skills and a flashback to my seventh-grade biology class, the name triggers a dormant memory.

I cock an eyebrow. “You mean those things that have rabies?”

She heaves a sigh, as if this should be common knowledge. “That’s a myth. Their body temperature is too low for them to carry rabies.”

Fuck, she’s smart. I could listen to her educate me for hours. This girl is unreal.

“Why do you like them so much?” I question.

Merit shrugs. “Misunderstood creatures deserve love too. People make so many cruel judgments about them just because they’re not nature’s perfect animal.”

I’ve never thought about it that way. I’ve always taken society’s opinion at face value, but Merit sees the light in those born to darkness. It’s one of the many things I admire about her.

I narrow my eyes at that stupid marsupial, like my glare will magically set her clothes on fire. I got distracted from what’s really important here.

“Where is it.”

It’s not a question.

Merit seems to know exactly what I’m talking about because she yanks down whatever is underneath her sweatshirt, showing me a sliver of crumpled maroon. “I’m wearing it.”

“No, you’re supposed to wear it over the sweatshirt.”

She stands on her tiptoes so she can waggle her finger in my face. “That was never a part of the arrangement. I’m wearing your jersey, aren’t I?”

I’m aware she’s playing with me. She’s the cat, I’m the mouse, and she’s got my flimsy little tail wrapped around her claw.

“You want me to put in a good word with your dad? Wear it over the sweatshirt, Merit,” I growl, failing to weed out the deep-seated possessiveness inside me.

She descends to the soles of her feet. “Low-key really isn’t in your vocabulary, is it? My dad would have an aneurysm if he saw me wearing your jersey. There’s a romantic implication,” she explains slowly.

Usually, the patronizing thing doesn’t do it for me, but if Merit is the one putting me in my place, I’m more than willing to comply.

I perk up, flashing her a panty-melting grin. “Romantic implication?”

She flicks her ponytail in disinterest, tutting. “Yeah, never in a million years.”

“So you’re telling me there’s a chance?”

“How did you get that from our conversation?”

“I’m an optimist.”

“In a million years, you and I will both be dead,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest, though she looks about as intimidating as a cupcake.

The tip of her nose is red from the snow-bearing temperature, and even though she’s bundled beneath layers, I still want to bring her into my arms and shield her from the cold.

“Maybe we’ll be trapped in the afterlife together,” I surmise, admiring her from a self-inflicted distance, a tepid warmth springing eternal in my chest.

I derive a genuine pig snort from her, and it’s one of the best sounds in this entire world.

Better than the roar of the crowd before taking the ice, better than the blaring of a goal horn after scoring a shot, better than the hiss of glissading skates or the thwack of pucks against sticks.

It’s the kind of laugh that you wish you could bottle up.

“Shit. That’s actually a fate worse than death.”

I know I’m toeing an invisible delineation between us—one that I’ve accepted to be gospel—but now, being this physically close to her but so emotionally far away, I’d be doing us a disservice if I didn’t test its flexibility just a little bit.

So, hoping that I’m not making an irreversible mistake, I inch the slightest bit over the figurative line until I’m crowding her personal bubble. “Pretend all you want, Merit, but I don’t think you hate me as much as you let on,” I whisper under my breath, right next to her ear.

I don’t touch her. I let the proximity speak for itself.

The Queen of Cover-Ups can’t even hide the shiver that rolls through her body. “And how can you be so sure?”

My eyes drift to the secret underneath her sweatshirt as unmatched pride swarms inside my stomach. A secret that nobody else knows about except us.

Even though my gum has lost its flavor, I still flatten it against my back molars. “Whose name is on your back right now?”

Merit has gone stock-still—as if she’s a doe caught in the line of a hunter’s crossbow—and although her cheeks are windburned, the timid blush that peeks through is unmistakable.

No snarky comeback, no stubborn resistance.

The only thing that she manages to do is part her lips with a delayed response.

“I’ll score a goal just for you tonight,” I whisper.

“Please don’t.”

“Too late. Already planning on it.”

I jog in place in the single-file line—gum disposed of and helmet equipped—galvanized to wipe the rink with the other team. I’ve been working all summer for this. Here’s my chance to prove to everyone that I belong here.