BLAZE: Enemies to Lovers College Hockey Romance

by Eddie Cleveland

  “Be careful of the oil,” she calls just as my foot hits a slippery patch on the glassy floor.

  One of my feet kicks out, and I yelp as gravity tugs me down. Out of pure instinct, I flail at the stripper pole and manage to grab it with both hands, stopping my fall mid-air. It’s greasy with baby oil, and I start to slip down it, but I manage to hang on for dear life.

  With more work and less grace than I’d like, I pull myself back up, enough that I get my feet firmly planted beneath me. It takes another second until I’m standing back up properly. Blood pulses in my head.

  Past the barrier of darkness, I hear laughter. Blaze’s laughter. It’s loud, and it’s that belly-busting kind of laugh that a comedian would kill for. All it does for me is send a million pins prickling into my skin. The rush of adrenaline and embarrassment flooding through me has found a new outlet—anger.

  I drop one hand from the pole, but don’t let go of it entirely. “Excuse me,” I yell out. The DJ in the sound booth has turned off the music and is asking the bouncer to come retrieve me.

  “Yeah, sorry to ruin your Wednesday evening entertainment.” I keep going. “But we have a little problem here.”

  “Is one of those guys your husband?” The stripper pulls on a little silk robe and ties it at the waist as she talks to me. I’m not sure why she bothers to put it on because she doesn’t cover anything. Her large, and may I say impressively spherical, breasts are still completely exposed.

  I squint past the bright wall of light, blinking until the shadowy shapes transform into men. Older men. Men who probably went to college half their lifetime ago. “What? Those guys are twice my age.” I shake my head at her. “Really?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” She flips her hand at me, waving it all around. “It’s hard to tell what your deal is,” she answers.

  And just like that, I can add “looks old enough to date someone her Dad’s age” to my growing identity crisis.

  Now is not the time to overanalyze my dating prospects. I have a message to get out. The bouncer has clearly heard the call from the DJ and is heading this way. I turn my attention back to the crowd beyond the lights.

  “The problem is...” I start to yell out.

  “The problem is you’re on the stage. Either take your clothes off or take off!” an angry, deep voice interrupts.

  “The problem is…” I swallow my anxiety and keep going this time. “This reputable establishment is currently admitting and selling alcohol to minors. Yes, that’s right.” I keep going, and the bouncer stops looking at me and looks across the bar at Rookie and Blaze. “Those two over there. If anyone had bothered to check their identification, you would know that they are both under the age of twenty-one.”

  “Who cares? Show us your tits!” one of the men at the stage-side seats yells up.

  I cross my arms over my chest, but I won’t let that creep shut me up. “Wouldn’t it be a real shame if a place that makes so many people so happy lost their license for serving underage college kids?”

  “Get ‘em outta here,” the same angry voice calls out. I squint through the darkness, and the bouncer is making his way over to them. At least he’s not storming my way anymore.

  I cup my hands over my eyes, and it’s very clear that Blaze and Rookie aren’t interested in being dragged out by the impressive man heading their way. As college hockey stars, I’m sure they’ve seen their fair share of big, burly guys. The sport is full of them. The bouncer looks a lot like those hockey guys, as tall as they are with their skates on and as big across as they are with padding. The difference, he’s currently wearing a t-shirt and sneakers.

  “What the fuck is she still doing up there?” The show-me-your-tits voice makes me realize I’m still standing on the stripper stage.

  “Oh, shit,” I mutter. I’m down the stage stairs and across the bar quickly. I ignore the guy catcalling me. I also ignore the guy booing me. Instead, my attention is back on this Blaze situation. I walk next to the bouncer as he shows the guys the door. “Thank you for getting them out of here.” I look up at him.

  “Just doing my job.” He doesn’t bother looking at me.

  “You and me both,” I answer loudly, making the point to Blaze. He doesn’t acknowledge my existence at all. An angry shade of red blisters the tattoos running down the sides of his neck. He never turns back, but when his head tilts to the side, I can see how tight his jaw is. He’s pissed.

  “Good to know.” The bouncer rolls his eyes.

  Blaze is about to get even more pissed off because I rummage through my purse and pull out one of the business cards I wasted way too much money on. I was convinced if I had them printed on the thickest paper with the nicest font then that card would demand the people at my next job take me seriously.

  It’s time to prove that I deserve to be taken seriously. Even though it’s money I can’t afford to hand over, I pull a twenty out of my wallet and fold it over the crisp edge of my card.

  “Thank you for doing your job.” I hold it out to this guy, the Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson of bouncers.

  I’m not surprised when he takes it, but I’m grateful he does. I didn’t really have a backup plan if he refused to.

  “If either of them come in here again, please, give me a call. If you do, I’ll make it worth five times more than this.”

  He looks at the money and card in his palm and then at me. “Why wouldn’t you just say I’ll give you a hundred bucks? That’s what you mean, right?” He blinks at me. Suddenly, the cool and in-charge thing I was going for cracks.

  “That’s what I mean, yes. I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you call me.”

  “You got it.” He nods, tucking my card and the money into his shirt pocket.

  We all walk out into the cold, dark night. Clouds of our collective breaths hang around us as we make our way into the parking lot.

  Checkmate.

  4

  Amnesia Sex

  Priscilla

  “Of course you carry around business cards.” Blaze shakes his head as we walk to the vehicles we got here in.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I don’t know why I care. He has this way of dragging me down into the mud with him.

  “How old are you?” Blaze turns toward me. Straight on, his eyes are fiery, and his jaw is tense. His breath seems to grow out around him in the winter air. It gives him this dreamy-hazy kind of look that I don’t really appreciate. It’s bad enough Blaze thinks the sun shines out of his asshole; he doesn’t need nature’s fog machine billowing around him like he gets to live some kind of Brad-Pitt-in-a-cologne-commercial life.

  “Uh, twenty-four. Why?” I have no idea where this is going. Does he remember me? My heart leaps into my throat. There is zero chance Blaze is going to listen to me if he remembers…

  “Everything you do is so fucking annoying. What kind of twenty-fucking-four-year-old babysitter carries around business cards?” He turns his back, walking to the huge Escalade. Parked next to it, my little Neon looks like a toddler toy.

  I guess he figures I’m dismissed, but it doesn’t work like that. Blaze doesn’t get to stir up everything and then drive off into the night. He thinks me doing my job is annoying.

  “I’m annoying?” I roll my eyes.

  “Yes,” he answers quickly. Rookie laughs, but it comes out like a goose honk and then it turns into a cough.

  “The entire reason I have a job is because you’re so starved for attention you get arrested for public indecency and have viral porn videos. What do you think that makes you?” I pinch my hands into my hips, but because they’re covered with my long winter jacket, I just feel like I’m squeezing a pillow.

  “Awesome,” Blaze answers, smirk firmly attached to his lips.

  “It does start with the letter A, but the word you’re looking for is asshole not awesome.” I could not make a clearer connection.

  His eyes flicker, but that smug smile stays fixed on his lips.

  “Okay, so I’
m annoying because I’m doing my job, but it’s a job you created. So, who are you really pissed off at?”

  That stops his stupid smirking. Blaze flares his nostrils, and his lips press tight.

  “And, since I’m doing my job, I’m not letting you guys drive home tonight.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll drive straight back to Hector House, like a good little boy,” Blaze answers through clenched teeth.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “No?” He looks to Rookie, but neither of them seems to understand what I’m getting at.

  “Well, yes.”

  I do nothing to clear it up for them, and they both look like they’re losing patience with me. Especially Blaze. I can tell he’s not used to losing. It must not be something he deals with often. There’s a wild streak in him as wide as the Grand Canyon, and it goes twice as deep.

  “Yes, you guys are going to Hector House. No, you’re not driving there. You’ve been drinking. Underaged,” I remind him.

  “Fuck, come on,” he scoffs, rolling his head back.

  Tendrils of tattoos draw my eyes to where his open winter jacket meets the neckline of his shirt. A tangle of ink pulls my curiosity to the edge of the fabric.

  “Fine, no problem. Rookie, you’re driving us back to Hector.” He tosses the keys over to the fresh-faced newbie.

  “I wish I could, man. I don’t have my license.” Rookie tosses them back.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I’m from San Francisco. Hardly anyone drives.” He looks down at the ground, hiding from my disbelief. Still a virgin and no license. Is there any milestones this kid has actually reached?

  “Listen, Becky, I only had two drinks.” Blaze sort of talks in my direction as he makes his way to the oversized SUV.

  “I think it was four, man.” Rookie drops his voice, but I hear him.

  “You’re not drinking and driving.” I shrug. “Get in my car. I’ll drive you guys home.”

  “I’m not leaving Griz’s Escalade at Foxies. It’ll get towed, and he’ll be the one who has to come get it. Are you really going to punish Griz for this? Isn’t this enough of a power-trip?” The way his eyes darken and narrow, it makes me wish he was still walking away from me.

  He’s right, not that I’ll say it out loud. I can’t do that to Griz. Even though it would really be Blaze’s fault, I still can’t screw over one of the nicest guys on the team.

  “Give me the keys.” I hold out my hand to Blaze. “I’ll drive you guys to Hector House, and you can pay for my Uber back here so I can get my car.”

  “I’m not paying for nothing,” Blaze starts, but Rookie grabs him by the arm and he stops.

  “I’ll pay for it then. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just head back. I don’t want all the guys at Hector to be pissed at me,” Rookie says it in a lower voice, but it’s only us out here on a cold winter night. It doesn’t take a lot of ear strain to hear every word.

  “They don’t care about any of this,” Blaze dismisses.

  “The guys definitely care about this,” I intervene. “Player is the one who texted me.”

  “Knew it,” Blaze mumbles.

  “Come on, man.” Rookie isn’t saying much, but he’s pleading with his eyes. I don’t think he wants to turn his back on Blaze, but there’s only so many ways this can go. Not many of them work out well for him, and he knows it.

  Blaze steps toward me, and I don’t budge. He grabs my hand and pulls it out toward him, drops the keys in my palm and closes his hand over mine. “I’ll pay for your drive,” he finally concedes.

  The SUV feels a lot like driving a bus. It’s weird being up front, with both of them behind me. Am I supposed to get out and open their doors for them when we get to Hector House? I feel like there’s a window missing, the tinted one that’s supposed to separate them from me. The one that they only roll down to address their driver.

  Blaze’s phone screen lights up his face. Rookie stares out his window into the darkness.

  “There.” Blaze looks right into the rear-view mirror, and I feel so busted. Even though I’m not facing him and it’s dark, I feel like he can tell I’m blushing.

  “What?” I answer.

  “A car will be waiting for you when you drop us off.”

  It’s so quiet. The wheels humming against the road sound louder than static on the radio. I hate that I keep looking back at him. It’s not very professional to remember how his tattooed hands felt. Firm. In fact, all of him was very firm.

  When we all get out at Hector House, and I hand Blaze back the keys, it’s Rookie who says, “Thank you.”

  Blaze scoffs, “Yeah. Thanks.” There is zero percent gratitude in his words.

  “If I have to come out like this again, I’m calling Coach Wilson.” I don’t even bother looking at Blaze when I say it. It’s only Rookie who cares.

  “Get in your fucking Uber.” Blaze shakes his head, my words landing like duds at his feet.

  I know I’ve made myself clear. Standing here arguing with Blaze about this is pointless. I go to the car waiting for me down at the curb. A woman with a smile that reminds me of my grandmother waves at me from the driver’s seat. I get in, and she’s super friendly and doesn’t seem even slightly judgy about where she’s taking me. If she has any personal opinions about my return to the strip club, she doesn’t show them.

  When we get to the parking lot, she pulls up next to my Neon. “Okay, I’m gonna wait here and make sure you get in alright.” She watches me push the door open and get out.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I answer.

  “I promised I would. The guy who booked the ride insisted.”

  Blaze?

  I don’t ask her. I just get inside my car. My head is spinning from this crazy night. Driving back to my place, my thoughts can’t be pushed back anymore. All the images I’ve been trying not to think about come flooding back. That night when I was a senior. I remember his firm hands, how they felt, pressed into my naked body. We were sober enough to know what we were doing and drunk enough not to care.

  It’s weird to look in the eyes of someone who once had their dick inside you and see no recognition from them at all, like he has some kind of amnesia. More like sex amnesia. He fucks so many bunnies, of course he doesn’t remember the night I made the craziest most impulsive decision of my life. Even this many years later, the sex he doesn’t remember is the sex I can’t forget.

  5

  Prince Harry or Killer Clown

  Priscilla

  My car is snugly tucked into the side of the building. This is one of the perks of having an office at the Westbury Arena. Other places on campus, parking this close to the front door comes at a premium. At the main administration building, the payments begin at first-born child and go up from there.

  Grabbing my winter coat and purse, I head outside. I’m greeted by a big, blue sky and sunshine glinting off banks of snow. It’s like something out of a Christmas movie until I walk in through the double doors, and my senses are assaulted with a double whammy.

  The freezing air in here will almost double you over, it’s such a shock to the system. They call this arena The Witch’s Tit because it’s an absolute icebox. If the cold doesn’t wake you up, the weird funk will. It smells like metal, sweat and ice.

  I’ve always thought of ice as having its own smell. Maybe it doesn’t. I guess it’s more of a feeling. That cold-tip-of-the-nose, rosy-cheeks, catching-snowflakes-on-your-tongue kind of feeling.

  Zipping my winter jacket, I go through the main entrance and up the stairs to a corridor of oversized windows that overlook the arena. The view is yet another perk of this place. You don’t have to be a fan of hockey to appreciate the skill. They tear up the ice so fast, I feel a little scared for them. I refuse to focus on any one person, but my traitorous eyes land on Blaze. I don’t mean to watch him. I wish I could walk by without even noticing him. Yet, my eyes don’t move and my feet root to the floor.

  He’s like a spe
ed boat gliding over the ice. Except, instead of the curl of a white-tipped wake trailing him, there are sprays of shaved ice as he carves up the rink. Blaze is the perfect name. He moves like he’s got some kind of Matrix-hockey ability while everyone else plays the game on normal mode. The fact that he loves smoking weed and is incredibly hot are just a couple reasons no other name would fit.

  This is into full-on staring territory now, but I’m still unmoving. I don’t know why I never noticed before, but hockey players are incredibly graceful. The weaving and darting over the ice, it’s almost a dance. Blaze is the star of the show, making it look effortless when I know for a fact that it is hard to do.

  Sports in general have never come easy to me, but skating was one of the hardest things I ever tried. On a good day, gravity and I have been known to battle it out. What could make more sense than taking someone who’s naturally clumsy and trying to get them to balance on tiny little blades. I struggle to walk in my flat-bottomed canvas sneakers. At no point would I think, “you know what would make this more fun? If there were butter knives welded to the bottom of my shoes, and I was trying not to fall on my face. On ice.”

  I shouldn’t watch. Especially not him. Still, when it comes to bad decisions involving Blaze, lingering a little too long is nothing compared to that night a few years back when our clothes were a tangle of promises being kept on the bed. Heat rises up in me, and I remember the heat that rose between us then. It burned in my belly, how much I wanted him.

  I can’t believe I was so naive when I took this job. I knew Blaze slept with a lot of women, but a stubborn sliver of my ego made me worry he’d remember me. A quiet voice kept nagging me. What if…?

  All that worry for nothing. There wasn’t even a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. As far as Blaze is concerned, I’ve never set foot in his life until I got this job. Honestly, it might have been the final nail in the coffin that was my ego, but it’s for the best. He’s distractingly attractive. That blank stare in his eyes helps me pretend that night never happened.