Page 30 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

None of them seem to know that I’m their coach’s daughter, which is both surprising and relieving. I can thank Crew for leaving that tidbit out. I can also thank my dad for being impersonal during practices. The last thing I need is for the whole team to roll out a metaphorical red carpet for me.

The remainder of the squad to be introduced is a guy smaller in stature than the rest, who opted for a safer, more conservative banana costume. “This fundraiser is going to be awesome. I can’t wait for auction night.”

I’m grateful for the non-Crew-related subject change. “I hope so. I have no idea if I can even pull any of this off, you know? I’ve never organized an event this large before.”

A frown fractures Crew’s composure, and his tone turns shockingly serious. “Hey, you’re going to do a great job, and we’re going to help you with whatever you need. Isn’t that right, guys?”

“Right!” they all agree in unison .

When I see a regretful pledge carrying a tray of Jell-O shots in my periphery, I impulsively swipe one without him looking, squeezing the gelatin from its plastic container before downing both it and the complementary vodka.

I’m riding a faint buzz from the previous drinks, but the nerves are still at large.

Crew and his friends all stare at me. I can’t tell if they’re impressed, disgusted, or a little bit of both.

I cover my mouth with my hand in mortification. “Sorry. Do you guys want some?”

Crew’s spine goes ramrod straight—a somber sentinel that’s light-years away from his normal, carefree demeanor—and his lips purse to form what I’m assuming is a “no” before Harlan beats him to the punch.

“Fuck yeah!”

The rest of the guys rejoice, flagging the unsuspecting pledge down, and I guess the skinny, pimply-faced dude recognizes everyone on the hockey team because he presents the drinks to us like we’re paying customers.

Crew pulls me aside and whispers, “Maybe you should slow down.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” I insist, wrenching my arm away indignantly.

“You’re acting weird tonight.”

“I’m not acting weird. You’re acting weird.”

He rolls his eyes, huffing in exasperation. “Don’t be childish, Mer.”

Mer.

Every time he speaks, an angel gains its wings. God, he’s like the love interest in a romantic comedy, constantly backdropped by an imaginary, golden glow that makes me abandon any ounce of feminism in my body.

I’m aware that we’re duking it out in front of a small audience, but, in my defense, Crew should’ve minded his own business and let me drown myself in manufactured poison .

“Why did you ask me to come tonight?” I interrogate, a slew of conflicting emotions taking root inside my chest and elongating their brambles over the domain of my heart.

Crew recoils as if I’d just burned him. “Um, maybe because I thought we’d have a good time together?”

“Is that all I am to you? A good time?” I retort, venom dipping into my tone, my tongue a conduit for all the terrible things I want to say—the words I had to shove down to compartmentalize, the ones I now project through a lens of self-loathing.

Crew—knowing my proclivity for debate—closes off the conversation by pulling me into a more private sector of the house, away from his friends.

“Of course not, but you set some pretty strict boundaries before, and I’m just trying to be respectful,” he hisses under his breath, his stormy glare burnished with an equal measure of frustration.

With my very unobstructed view of his naked torso, I can see the way his muscles ripple, underlined by a muted strength. Even despite blowing his top, his fingers remain featherlight on my wrist.

I realize that I’m picking a fight just to pick a fight.

I’m mad at myself. I’m mad at the situation.

All I want to do is throw a tantrum and scream at the top of my lungs, “Don’t be!

Have your way with me! Do whatever the fuck you want to me!

Because I can’t take another second of pretending like there’s nothing between us! ”

But that’s not what hitches a ride out of my mouth. In fact, option B seems more deplorable than option A: mutually assured destruction.

“Yeah, because you’re Crew Calloway. The most respectful playboy on the planet who friend zones everyone.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” he growls.

“What’s that supposed to mean? ”

“You’re the one giving me mixed signals.”

I gesture between us with a theatrical hand, rage curdling in my belly along with the rest of my regrettable shots. It’s like there’s a cage match going on in there, and the only loser is going to be me. “Yeah, because this—whatever this is—could jeopardize your spot on my dad’s team.”

I knew it wasn’t going to take long before Crew snapped, but I greatly underestimated the intensity of his nuclear explosion. He claws his hands through his hair—the shattered image of a man driven to the brink of madness—and fury possesses every undulating tendon in his upper body.

“Fuck, Princess. You’re worth the risk. Don’t you realize that?”

I’m…worth the risk? He’s not serious, is he? Why would he give up everything he’s worked so hard for, for someone he just met? I wouldn’t give up my dreams or potential career for someone else.

But you already have, Merit.

Crew’s confession doesn’t land softly. It nose-dives right between us into the cold, hard ground, producing a crater from its life-changing weight and unbalancing the tectonic plates underneath my feet. My solar plexus is knocked off-kilter.

I don’t even know how to tackle this situation. For a girl who’s always prepared for the unpredictable, I’ve never felt so lost before.

“So what, we’re just supposed to dance around each other for the next two years?”

I hate that idea. God, I hate it so much.

Given the emptiness of the alcove we’ve found ourselves in, Crew pushes forward into my space, inadvertently making me slam my back against the wall.

He’s got me caged in on either side of his brawny arms, the hard planes of his stomach expanding when he inhales.

The closeness, the tang of alcohol on his breath, the heat from his body—they all ambush me with a frisson of lust, and tamping down the desirous pressure rallying at the crux of my thighs is going to be impossible.

Crew refrains from touching me, even though my sweat-slicked body is sending an obvious SOS signal for some much-needed attention.

His voice is laden with arousal, low-pitched, deeper than the bass that shakes the shoddy foundation of the frat house. “What do you want me to do? Because you clearly don’t have the guts to tell me outright.”

His dick is one call away from a house visit, and my needy pussy embarrassingly drenches the gusset of my thong. My eyes gravitate to the motion his tongue makes as it flicks out to wet his lips.

I can’t stand this anymore. I want him to kiss me. I need him to kiss me.

“Just tell me the truth for once! What is this, Crew? What do you want?” I plead, quite literally stuck between a cock and a hard place, unable to corral the runaway nerves that have since colluded with my alcohol-infused bloodstream.

Whatever comes out of Crew’s mouth next has the power to rewrite the future completely.

And it does.

It only takes one second.

“I want you , Merit! Jesus Christ. You’re driving me fucking crazy.

You’re all I ever think about. I’ve been obsessed with you from the moment we met.

Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to know all about the nitty-gritty details?

The fact that I can barely eat or sleep because you live rent free in my mind?

The fact that everything comes second to you?

You’re underneath my goddamn skin, and I don’t have the power to dig you out.

Every time you laugh or smile—reminding me that you’re not mine—it’s like someone has the barrel of a gun pressed between my eyes, and they’re going in for the kill shot.

But putting me out of my misery seems merciful instead of having to live my life admiring you from afar. ”