Page 25 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY

MERIT

Crew and his muscle-bearing jock-tourage seem to be too big to fit in their seats, sticking out like sore thumbs amongst the rest of the proportionately sized fundraiser committee.

Prismed hues of marigold slip through the large, lancet windows, the sleepy sun smelting the deep-bellied corners of a cloudless sky.

Even with the additional light, exhaustion bombards me, drooping my eyelids and weighing heavy like tungsten.

Mrs. Burke had a family emergency come up, so she’s left me in charge of the nonexistent lesson.

“Ideas, people. We need ideas,” I say, smushing the edge of the chalk into the glaringly empty blackboard. Mrs. Burke wants us moving like a well-oiled machine, and right now, we’re about a few gears short .

“What about a bake sale?” Marley proposes, while somehow simultaneously eye-fucking one of Crew’s teammates. I wouldn’t be surprised if we lost two committee members before class ended.

A guy with model-worthy bone structure pipes up, annoyance working through thick, unhurried syllables. “A bake sale? What are we, twelve?”

It feels like my brain is going through a rough patch of turbulence, pressure squeezing my temples in the form of a headache. “There are no bad ideas, okay? This is a safe space.”

Sort of.

I don’t know how to get the ball rolling. Nobody wants to be talking logistics on a muggy Monday in fall. My lips are dry, my patience is draining, and Crew’s threatening to out our not-so-hateful relationship to the entire class by staring at me like some lovesick idiot.

“Ooh, we could do a car wash!” someone suggests.

“I don’t think a bunch of stuck-up donors are going to want to have their car windows washed by shirtless hockey players,” Irelyn interjects from beside me, but in her reassuringly soft “good try” tone.

I swear I can hear the ticking of the clock as each torturous second passes by, like the incessant ringing of a tuning fork in my ears. Ideas are thrown out left and right, trampled by opposing opinions—a committee at odds with nothing in common except the pursuit of a passing grade.

“A yard sale!”

“What are we selling? Hopes and dreams?”

“No, wait—a talent show!”

“Do you want to bore our potential donors?”

“Maybe a walk-a-thon?”

“Who in their right mind would donate and participate in physical activity in their spare time?”

Yet, even in the midst of a low-effort war, Crew is the steady, metamorphic rock that cuts through the noisy swell of the ocean.

So unbelievably unperturbed and effortlessly cool, decked out in Nike Tech with that I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-like-this hair, his legs thrown up on the back of the seat in front of him.

My heart outpaces the monotonous droning around me; my pulse flitters similar to the way a butterfly circles in a bell jar.

My nerves are more awake than ever right now—rushing me with the intensity of a SWAT team breaking down a suspect’s door—and I’m worried that the rest of the world can see through my pathetic translucency.

Crew Calloway is not the nuisance I painted him out to be. He’s the only thing keeping me sane right now, and if that information fell into the wrong hands, this fundraiser would be the last thing I ever do.

“Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, the one figuring everything out?” a sorority girl nags from a few rows down—one I specifically remember stealing chair from—and I cringe.

She’s right, isn’t she? Shouldn’t I have more…

leadership skills…than this? I’m a border collie with no herding instinct.

Failure to deliver the best fundraiser this side of Minnesota has ever seen doesn’t reflect on the class, it reflects on me .

I was so confident going into all of this, then Mrs. Burke had to throw me a curveball, and said curveball is now sitting directly in front of me as he witnesses my incompetence.

Suddenly, a voice like spun sugar pulled between a confectioner’s hands rumbles to the forefront. “Give her a break. You’re not contributing either. This is a team effort. We have to agree on something as a collective.”

Crew’s eyes are narrowed, the features of his face drawn into a pinch that I’m beginning to think the whole hockey world fears, and an unspoken growl sears his throat.

When the rest of his team peer over to pitifully observe his latest victim, the girl has gone as red as the rind of a blood orange .

Crew’s…standing up for me?

Is he insane?!

I blink in humiliation, glued to the spot and steadily soaking sweat through the back of my shirt.

He winks at me, probably getting high off the fumes of his good deed.

Dropping his feet, he glances around the half-asleep lecture hall.

“And anyone who comes up with the winning idea we use for the fundraiser gets free tickets to this season’s hockey games,” he adds, immediately piquing the room’s interest as he throws metaphorical kindling on my small crosshatch of sad firewood.

Does he have the authority to do that? I don’t know, but it sounds convincing enough.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that my classmates locate the nearest writing utensil and pad of paper with impressive efficiency, then start jotting down ideas faster than greased lightning.

Everyone is whispering amongst themselves in collaboration, making more progress in a measly five seconds than we have in fifteen minutes.

They start to flock to the blackboard to broadcast their ideas.

I don’t know how to respond. My mind is the equivalent of a needle catching on the last groove of a record.

Relief shipwrecks against my fatigue-battered body.

It doesn’t take long for the spotlight to shift off me, and when it does, I slouch into the seat next to Crew, staring at the porous backdrop that’s now overrun with hastily scribbled propositions.

My burger date with him was eye-opening.

Now that I know he’s, in fact, not trying to embarrass me every chance he gets, my belly doesn’t burn with umbrage when he essentially stands up for me.

He genuinely wants to help, and I never would’ve expected a hockey-player-shaped footnote to manifest in the autobiography of my life.

With my brain screening ways to thank him, I don’t notice when a paper projectile is thrown at the side of my head. Thankfully it’s small, falling into my lap and snaring my attention. I unball the crumpled piece of binder paper and splay it out on the tablet arm desk in front of me.

Hi.

I don’t know why I look around to pinpoint the culprit, because who else would be passing me notes in class other than the one person who’d do anything to get my attention?

When I look at Crew, a not-so-subtle grin flutters over his lips.

I reach down into my backpack to pull out my trusty ballpoint pen before writing something between the faded lines. Then, I crumple it up, flick it into the side of Crew’s body, and try to suppress the giddy emotions that are turning me into some cock-dumb fool.

He doesn’t try to act nonchalant—he unwraps my letter quickly, like he’s been waiting a fortnight for it.

Passing notes? I didn’t know you turned into a walking cliché.

I watch Crew’s shoulders jump with a chuckle. Whatever he writes down, it isn’t so top-secret that he needs to hide it from the public eye. Or maybe he just doesn’t care about getting caught—a mindset that I wish I could adopt.

Actually, I think it’s pretty romantic. And I’m flattered that you’re keeping such close tabs on me.

Is this your way of wooing me ?

That depends—is it working?

We can’t be passing notes like this. Someone will see.

Then let them see. Maybe we’re discussing the fundraiser.

But we’re not.

No, we’re not. I only get a small fraction of your time. I’m not wasting it.

So what, you’re my new admirer now?

I’ve always been. And I take my job very seriously.

I just shake my head, turning the ink monstrosity over so my writing is legible. Like clockwork, I hurl the note in his direction.

You’re bad for me.

We can be bad for each other.

Maybe it’s my poor eyesight or the fact that I haven’t visited the optometrist in years because I’m terrified of the air puff eye test thing, but it takes me a few seconds to realize that there’s the smallest heart by Crew’s surprisingly neat penmanship. I heart that I know I didn’t doodle.

A heart? Really ?

Crew adds another to spite me. And another. And another.

You’re cute when you’re flustered.

You’re endangering us! This is evidence of our—our…

If you say “friendship,” I’m going to blow a gasket.

Out of nowhere, Irelyn stands up from her seat, huffing and puffing, with a piece of paper lodged in her fist.

“An auction,” she declares to the whole room with a crazy look in her eyes.

I’ve seen that look before—it’s the look she gets at two in the morning when she figures out who the killer is during our murder mystery marathons.

“We auction off the hockey team for dates.”

The lecture hall is up in arms within seconds, with most of the committee sharing in hushed, approving murmurs. One of Crew’s teammates—a bigger guy with a shaggy mullet—raises his hand politely.

“Um, what kind of dates?” he asks.

Someone else chimes in. “Is this considered prostitution?”

Irelyn goes deathly quiet, digging the heel of her palm into her forehead. “Um, I don’t…I don’t think so? Prostitution is legal in Minnesota, right?”

“It definitely isn’t,” I reply, discreetly scooting the heart-infested note off my desk and onto the floor. “But these dates can be professional. Maybe the winning bidders get a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant for forty minutes? Or a sightseeing tour of Minnesota’s nightlife?”

My best friend points at me. “Yes, exactly! It’ll entice anyone who’s interested in learning about hockey, fans of the sport, or women who are too old to be participating in a college auction.”

The mouthy hockey player from earlier elbows his buddy. “I hope I get a cougar.”

Crew, frowning, rips another piece of paper out of his notebook before angrily scribbling on it and chucking it at me.

Are you trying to kill me?

What are you talking about?

I’m not going on a date with a random stranger.

It’s for a good cause.

I don’t care. You’re the only person I should be going on a date with.

Mr. Hockey doesn’t like to share, does he?

Fuck no.

I rise to my feet to join Irelyn, sliding out of my seat to take my rightful spot by the blackboard. This time, courage outstrips my lingering pessimism, and I regain control over the committee with my iron-tight grip and my I-can-do-it pose.

“Everyone in favor of an auction, raise your hands.”

The majority of the class backs my best friend’s brilliant idea.

To no surprise, Crew doesn’t jump on the bandwagon.

He sits there, pouting like a child and giving me the nastiest stink eye.

I guess Irelyn gets free season tickets to every Minnesota Mustang game.

It’s not like I didn’t already have a nepotism in.

With a squeal, I pick up the chalk, scrawling on the board in big, bold letters: AUCTION . Beneath it, I begin adding bullet points for other sub ideas that can generate money .

Do I like the idea of Crew entertaining another woman on a potential date?

Not particularly, no. Do I like seeing him get all possessive and territorial?

A sick part of me says maybe. Even if I were to hijack this fundraiser—which I’d never do—an auction seems like the most lucrative and exciting route.

Seeing as this school is rabid for hockey, who wouldn’t want to spend their well-earned money on forty minutes with MU’s local celebrities?

If I’m able to pull this off, I could rewrite history.

I spend the rest of our class period breaking down roles and expectations, and although I wasn’t actively against the auction, I still keep Crew’s note tucked away in the pocket of my jeans—an exoneration of our sin, but a reminder of his sempiternal admiration for me.