Page 48 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

A CATWALK CATASTROPHE

MERIT

A week later, and tonight’s the big night.

Hours of preparation, crying spells only allayed by Minnesota’s famous chocolate chunk milkshakes, and a million and one practice speeches have all led up to this very moment.

The grand pavilion has been transformed into an auction house, its stone walls—the ones with stenciled heraldic signs and stained-glass windows—draped in mahogany lacework.

A myriad of antique chairs are positioned facing the magnificent catwalk, while tables have been set up around the perimeter brandishing Mustang merchandise, a spread of finger foods, and cellophane-wrapped gift baskets including amenities from local businesses.

A few areca palms flank the various exits, and the overhead lights have softened to a warm, golden glow, saturating the space in an ambience pantomiming that of the Roaring Twenties.

Prosperity, elegance, the inner workings of high society.

I had to dig out my floor-length black dress for this occasion.

It’s sexy in an understated way, you know?

A high leg slit, tasteful cleavage, form-fitting material that’s incontestably gorgeous.

I don’t even know if Crew will be here to see it.

I haven’t heard from him at all. I’ve left him at least thirty voicemails and fifty text messages begging him to talk to me.

The catwalk is an extension of the pavilion’s built-in stage, so the players have their own space to relax before the auction starts.

I fidget with my earpiece, making sure it’s nestled securely in my ear.

Under no circumstances will I let anything derail this event—and I mean anything .

This is the last thing I have control over, and I’m going to keep my promise to Mrs. Burke to put on one hell of a show… even if it kills me.

Public speaking has never been a source of unease for me, but then again, I’ve never had to address a room full of upper-class guests that the success of this whole fundraiser hinges on. So, yeah, maybe my mind is running laps, but I’ve got this. I just have to breathe.

I watch as my mother and father take a seat in the farthest row back. My mom is wearing a gold dress, and my dad models a perfectly pressed tuxedo, looking neither impressed nor ecstatic to watch his daughter whore out his treasured hockey players.

As spectators begin to take their seats, I slip backstage to check on the team—and to hopefully find Crew. He’s the reason people are here tonight.

The players are all lined up as expected, conversing animatedly. Holding my breath, I scan each individual head until I spot one that’s taller than the others. Crew’s hair is slicked back, and his formal attire caters to every delicious bulk of muscle on his physique.

Fast-walking over to him—and making sure I don’t trip in my heels—my heart is swinging against my ribs like a killer right hook, determined to slip through the slats and jump into his arms. When I approach him, though, he doesn’t greet me with that patented smile of his.

Not that I expected him to .

I can’t tell if this is some hypnagogic hallucination that’s been curated from my lovelorn heart, but trying to iron out the wrinkles seems as pointless as standing here with my mouth ajar.

Shock inoculates a paralytic agent into my bloodstream. “You showed up.”

The baritone of Crew’s voice is rocky, reminiscent of a growl from an aspirated engine. “Yeah. I tend to keep my promises.”

A dagger to the gut would’ve been a kinder sentence.

Guilt mangles my vocal cords, and my words come out butchered.

“I’m so sorry, Crew. For everything I’ve put you through.

All of this is my fault. I let my dad get in the way of what we’ve built together, and when you needed me to stand up for you, I didn’t,” I say, my sinuses inflamed like I’ve inhaled a fatal dosage of menthol.

The tears are on standby—waiting to ruin the makeup that I spent an hour working on—but it’s the snarling hurt that cuts me to the core. Hacks notch into bone as a permanent reminder of my irreversible screwup.

Sadness mars his expression, and his body language has shifted completely, as if we’ve reverted back to strangers. I’ve never yearned for his touch more than I do right now.

“I’m sorry for snapping. I just want this to be over. I don’t care about your parents’ permission. I care about you , Princess. But as much as I want us to be together, I don’t want it at the expense of your well-being. From the minute I stepped into your life, I’ve caused nothing but chaos.”

“That’s not true. You’re the least chaotic thing in my life right now, Crew. I need you, okay? I can’t do this without you.”

There are no words to make up for the time we’ve lost on opposite sides of the battlefield.

So, being of sound mind and desperate heart, I pitch forward to kiss the one person I’m done staying away from.

We fall into a familiar rhythm, unfazed by the fact that Crew’s teammates are witnessing a turning point in history.

But then, a brusque voice interrupts us immediately. “What the hell is going on here?”

Holy shit. Fuck. Shit. FUCK!

We jerk apart immediately. I don’t need to turn around to know who’s right behind me.

“Dad, I can explain,” I blurt out, inserting myself between him and Crew.

Cowhearted, my stomach is seconds away from revolting all the food I had in the last twenty-four hours, and I have a better chance of running for the hills than trying to plead my case. I’m not going to let Crew take the fall for this. It’s not his fault.

“Mr. Lawson, it?—”

My father’s expression is sullied with rage, those pronounced wrinkles of his no longer bearing a vestige of amicability. “How long?” It’s a growl that comes from the very depths of him—one that forces me into submission.

Neither of us want to answer him.

“How. Long.”

My dad isn’t a man who repeats himself. Ever.

“Since the beginning of school,” I confess, withering like the blackened edges of parchment paper after contacting a flame.

Crew moves me behind him instinctively. He knows that he’s about to get ripped to shreds, but he doesn’t care. He protects me just like he always has—even if it’s from my own father.

“Jesus Christ.”

“It was my idea, sir. I was the one who wanted to keep it a secret from you. Merit is innocent in all of this,” Crew claims, attempting to wrangle the situation with a full-hearted mediation.

“That’s not true!” I shout, trying to poke my head into the conversation, though to little avail given Crew’s impassable defenses and equally impassable stance.

I’m lucky that all his teammates seem to be too engrossed in their own conversations to eavesdrop on ours.

“I told you to stay away from my daughter, and you went behind my back,” my father snaps. “Then you both continued to lie to me for months.”

My pulse cartwheels as heat waves float up to my forehead and play with my already-spotty vision. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

Even while guilt carries out its rampage, Crew still shields me with everything he has— everything he is . “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have lied, but you never made us feel comfortable enough to come clean,” he retaliates.

My dad steps into Crew, seeing if he’ll fall back in line with brute force. “Listen here, boy. You’re coming between me and my family. My daughter doesn’t date my players, and I made that very clear to you.”

“With all due respect, sir, your daughter is capable of choosing who she does or does not want to date. I care for her deeply. So much more than you could possibly ever imagine. You want to punish me? Fine. Just leave her out of it.”

I stop hiding. I shove my way out of Crew’s shadow before he can stop me, my eyes harboring a fire so powerful that it has the outreach to submerge the entire world in beautiful ruination—to paint the sky in the same shade of scorned as the heart that’s been taught nothing but compliance.

“Crew isn’t some secret, Dad. I wanted to make one decision that was mine before you decided to weigh in on it like you always do. This is what I want. Can’t you be supportive for once?”

I’m hitting my very own event horizon, entombed by absolute blackness and stranded in space where I’ve lost my father’s light to guide me back to fecund earth.

Drifting mindlessly with no destination in sight, heart puttered out from disuse, survival stripped of every humanistic facet that gives life meaning.

My father’s mouth opens to respond, but Irelyn—out of nowhere—does a drive-by and ferries me toward the split in the curtain, cutting our conversation short and leaving me on the worst cliffhanger.

“Showtime, love! You’re gonna do great out there,” she chirps, completely oblivious to the quarrel transpiring moments before.

What was my dad going to say? I’d forgotten all about presenting up until now. How can I put on a brave face like I didn’t just sabotage the most important relationships in my life?

I don’t even have a microsecond to digest our interaction because I’m suddenly stumbling onto the stage and facing an expectant crowd of unblinking faces.

An esteemed gathering of people waits before me—long-time donors of the college, high rollers with unimaginable amounts of money burning holes through their silk pockets, a portion of the student body who won’t hesitate to circle me like sharks if I royally mess this up.

The spotlight isn’t too egregious, but it still makes me unreasonably nervous. I pause for a bit too long. When I try to breathe, it feels like there’s fiberglass embedded in my lungs. The sound of a cough and the shuffling of catalogs permeates the atmosphere.

A killing floor.

A disembodied arm hands me a microphone, and I take it with slippery fingers. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us this evening,” I announce, unfortunately enduring a brief moment of feedback that makes a handful of guests wince.

Great start.