Page 10 of Puck Shots (Love The Game #6)
“See you tomorrow morning. I’ll try to mess the bed up good for you,” I say, and it comes out way flirtier than I intended, but he just smiles, pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger, my gaze focused on the deep dimple in his right cheek again before he turns and leaves.
***
I walk into the house after a shit practice the next day, downing my second iced coffee for the day, hoping the caffeine and sweet vanilla and mint mix will help silence my brain as it screams, “You’ll never make it into the NHL playing like that.
” Luka and I worked on a speed play for an hour, but the single time I got my stick to the puck, I missed the fucking net by a mile.
When I turned back, the coach was so unimpressed he’d already walked out, leaving us to cool down on our own and then hit the showers.
I walk through the door of the KOK frat house and nod to Reginald Ducksworth, the old portrait hanging just inside the doorway.
Rumor has it that it was originally a painting of a rival college’s dean and was stolen during a blackout raid decades ago.
To conceal the theft, one of the art majors painted over the original head with a snooty-looking duck face whose eyes seem to follow you when you walk by.
Tipping your head or your hat to him on your way through the door became a sort of ritual or good luck charm. With the majority of guys in the house into sports, we’re no strangers to superstitions.
The house is always a bustle of noise and energy, and today it’s even louder with everyone getting ready for tonight’s joint midnight party with the Beta Omega Nu sorority.
Their house and ours have been starting off the year together since as far back as the college goes, and this year, it’s our turn to host, and we have to kill it.
Last year, the pledges, me included, were tasked with serving through the event, which would have been a totally normal thing to be doing, if we were wearing more than underwear made of leaves.
They had the whole Garden of Eden theme happening, but I’m not sure where they’re going with this year’s theme, judging by the goat horns Eli is trying to balance on the mantle where the lacrosse stick normally rests.
“I thought we were going for Midnights?” I say, crossing the room to help him.
“Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Eli replies, like that makes it clearer.
“So people dream of goats in the summer?”
He laughs, and the goat horns wobble, but I catch it before it can knock off the tall fake candles flickering either side of it.
“It’s a play by Shakespeare. And well, I guess, yes, in his world, they dreamed of goats, fairies and, well, magic and love.”
He finally gets the horns into a position that seems stable enough and climbs down from the small stepladder.
“So how are you finding your task?”’ I ask, and he nods with a tired smile.
“It’s more manual labor than the attic bathroom, that’s for sure, but the guys seem okay. I’ve met Jeeper, Ken, and Claw. But I’m only half sure those are really their names.”
I chuckle. “Jeeper is really Jasper, but his kid brother was talking to him on Facetime during rush and called him Jeeper right when Gareth was walking past, so now he’s Jeeper, and Gareth is, well, Gareth.
He’s pretty cool, thinks he’s funnier than he really is, but cool.
Don’t be too friendly with Ken, though, or he’ll walk all over you.
Oh, and Claw, he’s really called that. I saw his driver’s license once.
He’s a good guy if you can understand a word he says with his thick accent. ”
“I managed okay, I think. He’s from the Texas Panhandle, right?” he asks, taking a sip from his water bottle.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Thanks for the advice. Any other tips?” he asks, and I get this warm feeling in my chest. It’s kind of nice being useful in a way that doesn’t revolve around hockey.
“If you’re ever near Pickton’s, buy a box of their cookies and make sure the guys see you bringing them into the house. They all love them, and it will score you serious brownie points.”
“Nice. Pickton’s,” he says, typing the name into his phone. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Gareth calls out to Eli from across the room.
“Can you give us a hand, pledge? I think they gave us the wrong ones.” he calls, and Eli rushes over.
“Thanks again,” he says on the way, and I find myself standing there watching him for a minute as he tries to explain something to Gareth about the fake topiary tree he’s assembling, until finally Gareth takes off the small ball of greenery and replaces it with a larger one, then a stem and the smaller one back on top in the correct position.
Eli glances my way, and his sparkling smile erases the last of the stress I was holding from today’s not so stellar practice.
Before I look like a total creep staring at him, I look away, and turn, pretending to inspect the mantle, and that’s when I spot it.
A tiny turtle made from folding the label from a water bottle.
Did Eli make this? I pick it up gently, worried it might fall apart if I’m not careful.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Eli calls, and I spin, my face immediately going warm.
“I was just going,” I reply, sliding the turtle into my back pocket before doing as he says. When I reach my room, I find my bed perfectly made, even better than Luka’s, with tight corners, and a little peppermint chocolate on my pillow.
“Okay, now that’s cute.”