Page 42 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

I WANTED A DADDY, NOT A DAD

MERIT

“ H e said what ?”

“I know, right? It’s like he thinks he broke me with his dick or something,” I scoff, clutching my green tea and mirroring Irelyn’s steps as we traipse slowly across campus. I can’t really walk today due to… you know .

Minnesota University has always had a collegiate gothic style of architecture to it.

Towering stone buildings sprawl over acres of ancient land, often crafted alongside pointed arches, intricately carved tracery, and spires that attach to ivy-flocked crenellated parapets.

Most of these structures have been here since the 1900s.

There’s nothing modern about this campus, and I can see why the scenery appeals to so many students.

Some of the smaller classrooms are fashioned from brick, with the same steep-gabled bay windows and sophisticated buttressing.

The atmosphere is surprisingly not as sepulchral as I thought it would be.

The pale sun dozes off in a bed of white, cotton clouds, splicing goldenrod rays through the overhanging branches of eastern hemlocks.

The scent of terpenes suffuses the wintry air, and carapaces of pinecones crunch underneath my suede boots.

We let a congregation of band kids beetle to their next class.

“But the sex was good?” Irelyn asks, her eyes shaded by a pair of sunglasses to help with her hangover. She clenches a Styrofoam cup of coffee between her fingers.

Unfortunately, my backlog of that night is overflowing with X-rated memories that certify her suspicion.

The way Crew shunted into me with his abnormally large cock; the way he took his sweet, torturous time to pleasure every oversensitive nerve; the way he forced me to look at him so he could see exactly how he was unraveling me.

I absentmindedly stab my nails into my plastic cup, feeling the material bend underneath my grip. “Yeah, it was good. Ugh. It was better than good, Irelyn. It was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“To be fair, you haven’t had sex with that many people.”

We continue to jockey through the main quad, passing by the occasional student studying on a bench, running to their class like their life depends on it, or having a public meltdown in broad daylight.

The whole ride back from the rink was quiet.

Crew apologized, but I didn’t want to listen.

How could he insinuate that my heart would wear out after a trip to pound town?

It’s embarrassing. I told him I didn’t want to be treated like I was breakable, and he clearly didn’t have that mindset during the actual deed, so why, pray tell, did shit hit the fan afterwards?

Things were good. We were good. Now I scorn Crew’s stupid—but very skilled—penis.

Irelyn is my voice of reason, as usual. “Did you ever consider that maybe he was just worried? That he didn’t mean to upset you?”

My heart pitches into my throat, and anger repurposes into stomach-twisting guilt. “I know he didn’t mean it like that, but… ”

“But it still hurt to hear,” she finishes.

“The real Crew would’ve mounted me on his dick and made me cry uncle.”

She chuckles, taking a swig of her pick-me-up. “Romantic.”

“It just makes me reconsider what a relationship with him would be like,” I admit with a sigh, my wayward gaze coasting over the three o’clock rush, and a part of me contemplates if it would be less painful to be run over by a bicyclist.

Crew is the only person I can envision myself with.

He’s the only person I want to be with. I’m not good with relationships.

There’s a reason I’ve become more independent since my ex—I don’t work well with others, and I’ve grown wary of trusting that the people closest to me won’t walk out of my life the minute trouble comes knocking.

“What do you mean?” my best friend questions, a frown toying with her peachy lips.

Even in the midst of a hangover, she still has a full face of makeup on, looking as effortlessly ethereal as she always does. Irelyn St. Clair doesn’t live her life quietly. She’s the center of everyone’s attention. It’s impossible not to be mesmerized by her.

“What if this is a red flag? He might’ve promised not to fret over me, but who knows if that’ll change down the road. What if my health dips? I don’t want a caretaker—I want a partner .”

A bank of slow-moving clouds hovers over us, the afternoon sun illuminating the sky in marmalade hues like the glowing tip of a cigarette. A boscage of foliage environs our little patch of the quad, with boughs of old firs wind-cloven and peeling in preparation for winter.

Irelyn quickly sets her drink down on a vacant bench, then uses both of her hands to squish my cheeks, staring past my extra layer of bullshit and straight into the heart of my unspoken truth.

“First off, your health is going to be just fine. Second off, if Crew’s red flag is worrying about you, then I’d hate to see what his green flags are. And third off, he isn’t a mind reader, Mer. You have to be open about your feelings with him.”

It feels like my stomach draws into my spine.

I’m mired in mistakes, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stave off the tears that replenish in the corners of my eyes.

It hurts being mad at Crew. It hurts not being near him all the time.

It just… hurts . Crew Calloway didn’t simply waltz into my life and become an integral chapter—he turned me inside out with his bare hands, spilled ichor, and dug through the bruised parts of me that everyone else ran from.

“Do you think I overreacted?” I mumble through pursed fish lips.

She sighs, adopting that maternal tone of hers that only comes out in the direst of situations—historically brought about by yours truly. “No, love. I think what he said hurt your feelings, and you reacted accordingly.”

Irelyn drops her hands, giving me my unimpeded speech back.

“But you think I should’ve communicated with him, don’t you?”

She cocks a brow. “What do you think?”

And that, my friends, is why Irelyn is always right.

The truth of the matter is that I have a bad habit of assuming the worst about people without giving them a chance to defend themselves.

I’ve done this with Crew on multiple occasions, and this might’ve been my last strike.

He was just trying to be considerate—he didn’t mean to offend me.

Crew would never do anything to upset me on purpose.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” I mutter, kicking the toe of my sneaker against a miniature, plant-riddled delta in the ground.

Irelyn lifts her hands in surrender. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

Ever since my unspoken fight with Crew, it feels like my heart has been encased in amber, freezing all executive functions in my body and stagnating the blood I need to live.

I need to apologize. I need him to know that I’m sorry for not even hearing him out.

How is that fair? That’s exactly what my goddamn parents do—they dominate any conversation without allowing me the chance to rebut.

I’m so certain that I’m always right. I’m so focused on myself and my own problems that I never even consider anyone else’s feelings.

Frustration purged and courage nearing the horizon, I grab my best friend by the arms. “I need to find Crew. I need to make things right. I?—”

Irelyn’s eyes comb over something behind me, and a swallow glugs down her throat.

I unhand the poor girl and whip around to atomize anyone who might’ve witnessed my meltdown, but the only witness standing before me is the six-foot-three embodiment of all my deepest desires.

Crew, breathing rapidly like he’d just sprinted across the entire campus to find me, braces himself on his knees. His backpack is still swinging against his spine from the leftover momentum. “I’ve”— wheeze —“been looking for you.”

He’s been looking for me?

Those five words chip away at my heart’s thick, resin casing like a chisel and hammer.

“I thought hockey players were supposed to have decent stamina,” I quip, a small smile dangling from the corner of my lips.

His lashes flutter against the swell of his eyelids like chitin wings, his thickset chest ballooning with air. “Not when it comes to long-distance sprinting.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Pavilion.”

“Jesus,” Irelyn chimes in. She then realizes that she’s not supposed to be a part of the conversation and pretends to look around unconvincingly.

The pavilion is a thirty-minute walk from here. Crew is out of his goddamn mind. Hell, a text would’ve sufficed.

Even though a part of me knows the answer, I ask the question anyway, anxiety tumbleweeding through my belly. “What are you doing here?”

Crew straightens and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “I shouldn’t have said what I did at the rink. It was stupid of me to assume that you weren’t capable. I was trying to go about it in a respectful way, and it just completely backfired. I’m so fucking sorry.”

I shrink the invisible ravine between us, my heart a bleating mess. “It wasn’t stupid. I’m sorry. I know you were just worried, and I shouldn’t have taken it so personally. You had every right to be concerned, especially after I kept my diagnosis from you.”

He gently rubs his hands down the length of my arms—a show of affection that’s shamelessly public.

His touch lights up my brainstem and scrawls LOVE across the firmament of my mind like an aircraft expelling smoke in the sky.

My lease on life has brought a carry-on full of hope, and I’m kicking myself for all the time I’ve wasted being apart from him.

I’m addicted to Crew Calloway, and I’ll shout it from the rooftops.

When he tilts his head, his blond hair falls in tandem, and his boyish countenance is further accentuated by his contagious half smile. “You were hurt. You shouldn’t have to apologize for feeling.”

You shouldn’t have to apologize for feeling.

I’ve never thought about it like that. “Sorry” is a pretty common word in my vocabulary when it comes to my parents. Not because I do anything wrong, but because I don’t think I’m good enough. I never realized how… belittling …it is.

How did I get so lucky to have someone like Crew in my life?

After Felix, I believed that romance was a construct created by humans to appease our inherent loneliness—that a love without parameters couldn’t possibly exist in a world full of selfish hearts.

But Crew—the quintessence of all things I used to despise—is the first person to falsify my theory.

That night, when he saved my life, my whole outlook changed.

Guilt wedges itself in the currents of his blue eyes—eyes akin to the sun-warmed surface of a pool in summer. He inches closer, nudging his forehead against mine. “Plus, you said that you didn’t want to be treated any differently, and the first chance I got, I fucked up.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” I argue.

“I’m really sorry I ruined how fantastic that night was,” he says.

“You didn’t. I’m really sorry I misread your character. Again. Deep down, I knew you didn’t mean it in a malicious way. I need to learn to communicate with you about how I’m feeling, and I need to get off my high horse and let you explain yourself instead of jumping to conclusions.”

“I’d really appreciate that,” he whispers under his breath.

“Ugh, finally. Mom and Dad made up,” Irelyn comments from her spot on the bench, where she’s got her sunglasses lowered on the bridge of her nose like she’s watching her favorite soap opera.

I chuckle and shake my head.

Crew—seizing the moment—leans forward to capture my lips in a kiss, but a group of people walk by us at the last moment. Sure, they’re not paying any attention to the would-be-smackaroo, yet I turn my head anyways, making sure that there will be no mouth-to-mouth in front of MU’s student body.

We’re still a secret, and I hat ? —

“I hate that I can’t kiss you in public,” he interrupts, mirroring my thoughts.

He does ?

“You do?”

“Fuck. Yes, Merit. I’ve been a secret for too many people. You, my father, my exes. I want to show you off. I want to dote on you. I want everyone at school to know that Merit Lawson is off the market, and I’m the lucky bastard who has her.”

I want the same thing too, but my dad…ugh, my dad. He’s a nutcase. He’d burn the world to the ground if he found out that his daughter was participating in after-dark activities with his esteemed hockey player.

Then again, my relationship with my father is literally in the trenches right now. I’m stuck living at home, going to and from school on a strict schedule, and being monitored wherever I go.

It feels like there are cinder blocks tied around my ankles, pulling me deeper into the bowels of a russet-colored lake, pruning the body that tries so desperately to fight its way free.

“I’m done hiding from your parents,” he proclaims.

My face drains of color. “What?”

“I don’t want to be a secret anymore. I’m tired of stepping on eggshells around your dad. I’m tired of sneaking around behind his back. I know this is putting you in a tough situation, but you need to tell your parents the truth. The longer we keep this from them, the worse things will get.”

He does have a point. It’s not fair to Crew; it’s not fair to my parents. Just because I’m a coward doesn’t mean the people I care about should suffer. And if my parents really do love me as much as they claim—with their micromanaging and back seat driving—then they’ll accept that we’re together.

I’m so fucking done playing by the rules.

“I’m going to tell them, I swear. I just have to find the right time.”

Crew pauses to digest my words, breaks out into a goofy little dance, then composes himself. “Really? That’s—that’s the best fucking news I’ve ever heard, Princess. ”

He doesn’t hesitate to swoop me into his arms, spin me around, and nuzzle his face into my neck while I’m reduced to a giggling devotee.

My legs flail about, and a star-speckled cosmos manifests in my chest, immersing my heart in a violet ombré and an infrared light strong enough to kill any seedling of sadness.

When he sets me down, he fixes some of my flyaways.

“By the way, how did you know where I was?” I ask.

Crew grimaces, looking behind him at Harlan and Sutton, who are huddled behind a low-coverage bush at least a few feet away.

“I have my ways.”