Page 7 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

DON’T HATE THE PLAYER, HATE THE GAME

CREW

S he’s gone. Poof. Out of existence. Walked out of my life without so much as a goodbye. I never even got her number; I never got any indication that she wanted to see me again. It sucks a lot more than I thought it would—and no, that’s not my bruised ego speaking.

I have an extensive history in the hookup department.

Normally, I’d be grateful that a girl found herself an Uber and saved me from the awkward “this isn’t going to work out” talk, but not this time.

Merit was different. I was different around her.

I wasn’t plagued by my stupid star hockey player title that girls flock to like moths to a highly combustible flame.

Everyone always seems to want something from me because I’m “destined for greatness,” as my former coach put it.

Whether it’s sex or connections, it doesn’t really matter.

I’ve found that being lonely and being alone are two very different things.

So, I lean into it—the exaggerated praise, the stretched half-truths, sometimes even the full-blown lies.

Merit had no idea who I was, and as masochistic as this might sound, it was refreshing to be treated like I was the scum of the earth.

Not to mention that I loved how combative she was.

She didn’t make anything easy for me. Though I’d argue that I changed her mind toward the end.

I do that—I grow on people like a fungal disease. It’s charming, really.

This isn’t how I wanted to start my junior year of college.

Would I have declined breakfast between acquaintances before my first class?

No, no I would not have. This has to be cosmic karma for something I’ve done in the past, right?

Like, Hey, Crew. Remember that time you chose not to donate to that charity for sufferers of erectile dysfunction?

Rue it, baby. See how your penis does when the first girl to pique your interest cockblocks you.

Or, you know, maybe it was for all those times that I was a complete asshole to any girl who wanted a genuine connection with me.

When I was falling asleep with my cock buried inside Merit, it was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel so…

alone . Like her allowing me to be skin-to-skin with her was some kind of subliminal message that someone needed—nay, wanted —me in a comfort that extended beyond networking and projected publicity.

I may never feel that again, and it terrifies me.

Even more than male pattern baldness.

The air is practically subzero as it cocoons my sweaty jersey, my sinuses burning from the unrelenting cold, and my thighs enduring a similar gauntlet of pain from overexertion.

I’m an incoming transfer student, but I’ve been working with the Minnesota Mustangs since summer.

Renowned, top-performing, and even producers of some of the greatest names in NHL history.

If I want a shot at going pro, this is my ticket.

And seeing as my major is shockingly undeclared, this is my best avenue to live a life full of purpose.

Something I’ve been searching for as long as I can remember.

Looking at me, I don’t scream “Major Daddy Issues with an Inferiority Complex,” but the sad reality is that I’ve let my deadbeat, good-for-nothing father dictate how I live my life. It’s kind of hard not to when the one person who was supposed to love me up and left.

Not only did he abandon me and my mother, but he did so for another family.

A better family. How am I supposed to be okay with the fact that I’m a product of my parents’ love, and yet my father can’t even stand to be in the same room as me?

I know it’s not the guilt that eats away at him—it’s the resentment.

So every time I step onto the ice—trying to prove myself to a man who will never give me the time of day—I let the anger light a fire underneath my feet.

This morning, I enter the rink with my skates slashing across a tempered surface, flurries swirling in the atmosphere, and the puck flitting between the blade of my stick, hightailing it straight to the goal.

I never lose sight of it. Adversaries from all different directions bulldoze onto the scene, swiping carelessly with clumsy sticks and half-baked plans.

I lengthen my strides, narrowly dodging incoming attacks from my teammates.

I keep the disc in my possession by making a quick cut right, grinning to myself at the pileup of bodies left at center ice.

The next time I’m faced with another obstacle, I make sure to turn my back and protect the puck, skating sideways toward the net.

Focus, Crew. See how the goalie’s anticipating your next move?

You’re right-handed—he’s going to expect you to shoot for the left side of the goal.

You’re lined up perfectly to sink a shot, but if you use the back of your blade to slap the puck into the lower righthand corner, he’ll never suspect it.

With my blade close to the ground, I arc it backwards for momentum and aim for the unprotected area of the net—only to have my plan, and route, derailed by a gargantuan figure.

The puck flies off to God knows where as I’m thrown up against the boards, the whole left side of my body crumpling upon impact.

Teeth gritted to keep a groan at bay, an inferno blazes through the contact point of my shoulder, sweeping through my aching muscles and concentrating at my hip joint.

Fuck, that’s gonna bruise.

My vision whites, bile surges up the back of my throat, and I humiliatingly lose my balance in front of all my teammates. I’ve been punted numerous times in my career, but never to this extreme. That wasn’t a defensive play. No, that was an attack spearheaded by pure loathing.

It feels like I’m wading through molasses when I finally come to, grabbing onto the boards before I’m left to forage for the shattered fragments of my dignity.

“Nice job, Captain ,” a voice sneers, and I don’t need to pinpoint the face to know who it belongs to. Steeped in animosity, wrapped in a subtle warning, it’s a tone not unlike the rattling trill of a venomous snake.

Knox Mulligan. Pre-star player of the Minnesota Mustangs.

I.e., the guy I stole the captain’s spot from.

Everyone and their moms knew that Knox was qualified to be captain.

He has great leadership skills, impeccable talent, and a history of being one of the top scorers on the team.

There really was nothing stopping him from being promoted—until me, my stupid self, and I decided to stumble in on his three-year plan.

I didn’t ask to be captain. Hell, I didn’t ask for any attention at all.

I just wanted a fresh start, and I wasn’t expecting an enemy as a part of the welcome package.

Knox spent the entire summer trying to one-up me—trying to prove to Coach that he’d made the wrong decision by making me captain. My body looked like a putrefied, rotting pear by the end of the first week of practice.

I don’t hate the guy. I pity him, if anything.

I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be so consumed with success that you have to tear down anyone who gets in your way.

Hockey is a competitive sport, sure, but we play as a team .

We rely on each other, and cooperation is the only technique that’ll secure us a spot in the Frozen Four.

If we’re at each other’s throats the whole time, our opponents will rip us apart without even having to lift a finger.

“Calloway!” Coach’s authoritative voice growls, practically resounding off the echo chamber of the arena. “You have teammates for a reason. Pass to them if there’s a goddamn opponent coming toward you. In fact, check your blind spot every once in a while. It might do you some good.”

I hold my throbbing shoulder and hiss under my breath, doing a piss-poor job of keeping my breakfast from propelling up my esophagus.

Coach is right—I was distracted. Not only has Merit stripped me of my sensibility, but she’s stripped me of my athletic ability.

Why am I letting some girl occupy my brain?

Hockey is the most important thing in my life.

Securing a career in the NHL takes precedence over getting my dick wet.

Show everyone that you belong here, Crew. Show everyone that you’re good enough to be captain.

While I straggle behind whizzing jerseys and raucous laughter, my best friend, Harlan Beaumont, skates over to me, clapping me on the back. I wince and grind my molars when he hits my Knox-inflicted bruise.

“Coach is just being a hard-ass. Knox came out of nowhere at the last minute. You weren’t granted any time to pass,” he says.

While I appreciate Harlan’s words, I don’t deserve them.

The first rule in hockey is to always be aware of your surroundings.

I have to remember that I’m not operating a one-man show anymore.

I’m responsible for a team now. They look to me to set a good example, and they rely on me to make the right calls when the time comes.

So far, I’ve shown them that I’m incapable of doing either.

Our first game is this weekend. If we don’t impress everyone out of the gate, nobody’s going to take us seriously for the rest of the season .

Taking my helmet off, I relinquish a sigh, watching as my heated breath snakes into the air like a visible contrail. “He’s right, Har. I’ve been off my game. How am I supposed to lead us to victory if I can’t even score a goal? I should’ve seen Knox coming.”

The chorus of skates slicing ice and pucks scuttering across the surface desecrates the serenity of the rink, further enhanced by overlapping voices. Trundling over to the bench, I swipe a water bottle before squirting a stream into my mouth.