Page 23 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

TRAUMA WITH A SIDE OF FRIES

MERIT

C rew was right—The Harvest Grill is the best burger joint in town.

I scarf down the double cheeseburger in front of me, abandoning all my ladylike manners as I manhandle the glorious, greasy monstrosity squished between my fingers.

If I wasn’t in public, I’d moan at how crisp the edges of the patty are, how tangy the garlic aioli is, how the sesame buns are toasted to utter perfection, and how the orgasmic cheddar cheese practically melts on my tongue.

Meanwhile, Crew stares at me in silence, hardly having touched his own meal.

When I finally give my poor stomach a break, I set the half-eaten burger back on my plate.

“What?” I ask through a mouthful.

“You just keep impressing me. I’ve never seen anyone put away a burger like that.”

I squint at him. “I could eat you under the table.”

All he does is chuckle, dragging a French fry through a mound of ketchup. “I don’t doubt it.”

This is so weird. We’re not at each other’s throats. We’re not batting insults back and forth. Even with the continuous lapses in conversation, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence. We’re coexisting. Some might even say we’re— shudder —enjoying each other’s company.

A painful swallow shuffles down my throat. “So…”

“How long have you been dancing?” Crew asks, forklifting his burger to those plump, bitable lips.

In fact, he looks so delicious that I wouldn’t mind devouring him for dessert.

He’s got an MU hoodie shrugged on, paired with gray, baggy sweatpants that are not only kryptonite to a horndog like me but accentuate his extremely sculpted quads and the…

generous …bulge sitting pretty against the inseam.

Lust bites into me, razor-sharp, like a pinchbeck ring against tender flesh.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Since I was five. I was a restless kid, and my parents needed to distract me with something. They’d always turn on So You Think You Can Dance , and I’d pretend to spin around in my frilly princess dress while these incredible talents leapt across the floor.

It was then that I realized I didn’t want to pursue anything else in life.

After lots of begging, they enrolled me in my first ballet class. ”

“Wow. That’s incredible, Merit. What exactly drew you to dance?”

Suddenly, my hard-earned food isn’t sitting so well. I can’t exactly say, “Well, dancing distracts me from the fact that I’ll probably die before I’m thirty,” because that would be a total mood killer.

As hard as it is to accept, I’ve always known that no matter what health precautions I take, death will always be a plausible outcome. Fighting fate only makes things worse.

“I view dance as a form of self-expression. It’s a way for me to process things I’ve been through and transform them into positive experiences. I feel so happy and free when I dance, you know? Like nothing else in the world exists—not my overbearing parents, not my grades. ”

I’m not sure how I was expecting Crew to react, but an unspoken understanding flits across his face. He’s still holding his burger in midair as a pickle slops onto his plate, followed by a landslide of mayonnaise.

“I know exactly what you mean. Hockey makes me feel the same way.”

Wait…we actually have something in common ?

“It does?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I use it to channel my aggression, sometimes I use it to accept my grief. It’s been the number one constant in my life.

When I step onto the ice, it makes me feel like I’m a part of something bigger.

Like my trivial problems are just that—trivial,” he explains.

“And it was the only thing that I was good at when I was younger.”

I pretend to gasp. “You mean to tell me that the Crew Calloway wasn’t a kid genius?”

He laughs for the second time this outing. Why am I keeping track? Oh, God. I think I’m losing it.

“Not even close. I still pronounce the ‘L’ in salmon.”

“To be fair, those silent consonants will get ya.”

A smile blossoms over Crew’s mouth, and the urge to kiss him is nearly unbearable, bringing me to a fever pitch that won’t be sated by Maple Grove’s famous cookie chunk milkshake.

I want to taste him again. He does something unspeakable to my psyche—leaves me comatose in the best way possible.

If I had to subsist on a one-man diet for the rest of my life, maybe Crew would suffice.

Maybe.

I seal my lips over the tip of my straw, slurping at my milkshake while unintentionally holding his gaze. I don’t even realize the action is suggestive until he awkwardly adjusts himself under the table, dipping his head to hide the blush sprawling over his freckled cheeks .

Who knew the captain of the hockey team wasn’t so arrogant after all?

I’m surprised when I’m the one to initiate the next topic of conversation. “Do you have other passions outside of hockey?”

He swirls around another French fry before tossing it down his gullet. I swear that man is like a garbage disposal.

“I’ve always loved horror. Movies, shows, books, video games.”

I lean forward with my hands on the table, unable to mask the note of excitement in my voice. “Really? I love horror too. It’s my favorite genre.”

Irelyn hates horror. Aside from getting spooked by the smallest of things, she thinks every horror movie is some undercover excuse for devil worship. She refused to sleep by herself for days after I forced her to watch The Conjuring with me.

Crew pelts me with rapid-fire questions.

“Favorite film studio?”

“A24.”

“Favorite movie?”

“ The Cabin in the Woods .”

“Best franchise?”

“ Final Destination .”

He pauses, interlocks his fingers together, then points them directly at me. “Best Final Destination movie?”

I roll my eyes, but for once, it’s benevolent. “The fifth one, duh. It has the?—”

“Best plot twist in film history,” Crew finishes, using his crazy hot-guy mojo to read my mind.

It should be illegal to be this sexy, talented, and have such good taste in movies. Yes, I’m aware that I just mentally complimented Crew on his hockey skills.

When I was watching the game—trying not to rip out of his jersey like a werewolf outgrowing human clothes—he was magnetic.

The Mustangs as a whole are a top-tier team, but there was something about Crew that held my attention.

For two hours. And that’s saying something seeing as I can’t even sit through a seven-second video without scrolling.

My dad wasn’t just kissing his ass for the sake of it—Crew has the chops to go pro. I’ve watched a lot of hockey players in my life—some who specialize in skating, others who specialize in stickhandling—but he’s the most well-rounded. Though I’ll never say it to his face.

My heart quivers like a crocus under a snowdrift, and a part of me (the one beyond saving) wishes there wasn’t a table between us. “Color me surprised,” I remark, trying—and failing—to act nonchalant as I lean back against the booth.

“What? That I’m not some meathead hockey player who only thinks with his dick?”

I know he’s joking, and sure, it’s evident by the teasing in his voice, but there’s an inkling of truth somewhere in there—a shiny, unpolished shard of sea glass in a sludge of fine-grained sand.

“That we have stuff in common.”

His defense lowers like a drawbridge. “Oh.”

I giggle. “ Oh. ”

Jesus. I’ve never giggled before, and certainly not because of a man. What’s wrong with me?

We eat in silence for a while, and after I demolish my burger, I’m on to ravaging the fries.

Though, as I stuff my piehole blissfully, I yearn for a closeness that I’ve never felt with anyone before—a closeness that Crew is more than capable of, and one I would wallow in if the world wasn’t actively working against us.

The truth is, while I was upset at him for infiltrating my life and keeping his profession a secret, I think I was more upset with myself for shattering my good girl image.

I wanted someone to blame when I should’ve been looking inwards.

It was my decision to sleep with Crew. I did it out of rebellion.

I did it knowing that my parents would never approve if they found out, whether he was my dad’s star player or some random hookup.

And the perfectionism that I’ve poured blood, sweat, and tears into was suddenly unattainable.

I threw everything away in a single night.

No matter how hard I struggle to reach that snow-capped mountain peak—to conquer the unconquerable—I continue to slip down, down, down .

But could it really have been a mistake if I felt, for the first time ever, cherished by someone other than my parents?

“Why did you help me?” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I mean, aside from the jersey and the date. Which this isn’t, by the way.”

Crew cants his head in amusement. “Right. Of course not.”

But as quickly as the lightheartedness leaves, the soft-spoken sadness arrives, and the tangerine light overhead—nestled in the belly of a stained-glass lampshade—casts a chiaroscuro over his features. “Believe it or not, I used to be one of those kids who couldn’t afford to play hockey.”

Shit. I had no idea, and I was the judgmental bitch who believed that Crew’s life had been nothing but a cakewalk.

My arm jerks reflexively, begging me to reach out and touch him. “Crew…”

He brushes my sympathy off, letting it roll down his back like rain off a waterproof jacket.

“It’s fine. My, uh, father left when I was young.

Took everything in the divorce. My mom could barely pay rent even though she worked overtime.

We lost comfortability; we had to ration food some nights.

All while my dad was living it up in his mansion with another family. ”