BLAZE: Enemies to Lovers College Hockey Romance

by Eddie Cleveland

  It’s so silent in here, if I closed my eyes, I’d think I was standing alone. The guys from Hector House exchange some glances, but no one says a word. Not even Player. His jaw is clenched tight. That’s the thing… everyone covers for Blaze. Even me. I don’t deserve this job, I’m a fraud.

  “Good.” Coach Wilson snaps me out of my downward spiral. “Blaze, do me a favor? Try not to commit any felonies. I don't want to look like an asshole tomorrow afternoon. Got it?”

  A chuckle moves around the room like the wave goes around a rink during a game.

  “Got it. The only felonies I commit will be in Grand Theft Auto.” Blaze makes the chuckle get louder.

  “What is that?” Coach Wilson squints.

  “Nothing, it’s just a video game.” Blaze looks like he wishes he didn’t make the joke when Coach Wilson stares at him like that.

  “This is the next generation of men, huh?” Coach shakes his head. “Damn, that reminds me, I’ve still got to help my daughter book her university tour. She’s spent every single day of the last three years telling me how grown up she is, and now she needs my help booking a tour? All you kids are the same. Anyway, go home. Come back here tonight rested, hydrated and ready to fucking fight!”

  “Go Warriors,” many voices chant out. There’s a few “Yeahs!” and “Woos!” thrown in for good measure. Once Coach Wilson takes off, most of the guys clear out.

  “Enjoy Grand Theft Auto tonight, Blaze. We know how much you like playing games.” Player stops clenching his jaw and keeping his silence.

  “Fuck off, Player,” Blaze hits back.

  “No, I won’t. We’re busting our asses to get to the finals. Coach is busting his ass to get your suspension lifted. And what are you doing? Playing Grand Theft Auto. I’m sick of your bullshit, man.”

  He’s not wrong. Blaze is like a black hole and everyone gets sucked in. His roommates, his team, his coach... me. He pulls you into his chaos.

  “You will not be playing video games tomorrow night,” I interrupt before Player and Blaze kill each other.

  They look surprised that I interrupted. Maybe they’re surprised I’m still here.

  “You’ll be here, supporting your team.” I try to sound professional. It’s a real fake it until you make it situation. Blaze needs an attitude adjustment, and sleeping with him didn’t change that. Turns out I don’t have a magic pussy after all. Damn.

  Player is smug, and Blaze is pissed. His eyes narrow. “Anything else, Prissy?”

  “Yeah, the game starts at seven. I expect you to be here on time. You will sit behind the team. You will stay for the entire game.” I start making up rules as I go.

  “And then are you gonna ground me and take away my video games?” Blaze interrupts. He gets a few laughs too. It’s crickets from Player and Griz though.

  I don’t laugh either. I’m sick of his disrespect.

  “In a suit!” I blurt out in anger.

  “What?” Look who’s not so jokey now.

  “With a tie,” I continue. “Not a clip-on.”

  Everything seems too quiet. I’m having a real Coach Wilson moment, but I’m not sure it has anything to do with respect.

  “No problem,” he finally answers, and it’s like the sound gets turned back on.

  Everyone clears out. Even Blaze.

  That was a win, right? Why am I not even sure? Why does it feel like I lost?

  14

  Malicious Compliance

  Blaze

  Everything about this feels wrong. The seats are uncomfortable, like they’re made of nails. Like I shouldn’t be sitting in them at all. There are only two places at the Witch’s Tit that my ass has got any business sitting, and both of them are benches: the ones in the locker room and the one in the box.

  I don’t know the last time I was a spectator sitting on the sidelines. Probably at one of Logan’s basketball games. When my brother played for the Warriors, he was the king of the court. Now, here I am, playing hockey for the same school. The fucking court jester.

  At least I dressed for the part. The only thing saving my suit from a bunch of staring eyes is my winter jacket. It’s colder than fuck in here, but I’ve gotta take it off. Prissy needs to see for herself that this tie doesn’t clip on.

  The lady next to me is pretty hot for over forty, but she looks tired. Waiting for the game to start with her three kids looks like her life’s biggest regret. Her mini-me with the exact same look of despair is sitting next to her. Identical twin boys are further down the line.

  The boys are smacking at each other with their mitts in a typical sibling battle, the same kind Logan and I had at that age. It always starts out harmless, until someone gets hit a bit too hard. Then all bets are off, and it becomes a real fight.

  “Brody, don’t hit your brother,” the lady hisses.

  “Brandon started it,” he whines.

  “Did not.”

  “Did too!”

  “If you two don’t stop right now, I’m going to have a very loud, concern-tinged conversation about how you guys shouldn’t be ashamed of bed wetting.” The sister shuts them up with that one, although they look like they might unite to plan her murder after the game.

  “Hey.” I turn toward the Mom.

  “I’m sorry about them.” She already sounds defeated as she turns toward me. “Whoa.” Her eyes go wide, and she stares at my suit. “I’m gonna need an eyeball transplant.”

  “Mooom, don’t. He’s hot.” The daughter slides her hands up the sides of her head like an embarrassment barricade.

  “I’m going to leave my coat here to save my seat, but can you keep an eye on it?”

  The hot mom looks me over. Women over forty tend to love me or hate me. I think it’s the beard and tattoos. I’m either the wild guy they wish they ran off with, or the guy they are afraid their daughter will bring home someday. There is no in between.

  Crinkles form around her blue eyes, and she smiles. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll make sure no one touches it.” She sits a bit taller, and she looks like she just got a triple espresso caffeine injection.

  “Thanks.” I look her in the eyes and see a sparkle in hers. I give her a quick wink. Well, it’s not to her. It’s to the wild woman locked inside her soul. Her smile grows as I stand up.

  “Yeah, if anyone even thinks about stealing your seat or your jacket, I’ll throw hands.” One of the twins puffs up in the chest.

  “Oh my God, Brody. You’re not even tough. Please stop.” The sister seems to be at the age where embarrassment feels deadly.

  I leave the seats and the rink behind me, but I can’t get out to the hall. A bunch of guys wearing Beta Frappa Chai, or whatever their house name is, on their ball caps block the way. They’re trying to figure out where they can get seats to sit together.

  “Holy shit, bro. That suit is sick.” The guys from the Greek life all turn and look.

  “Whoa, digging the eighties vibes.”

  “Hey, aren’t you on the team?”

  I don’t know any of these guys. They seem to know who I am though.

  “Yeah, I’m working on it. I got a suspension.”

  “For that porno?” the guy that towers over everyone else and has acne scars across his cheek asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude, I’ve got that shit saved to my favorites.”

  “I am a Warrior!” A little guy built like a brick house imitates my famous line from the porn, and everyone laughs. Even me.

  “Anyway, let this absolute fucking legend through, and let’s get our seats.” A skinny guy with shaggy hair cuts in, and everyone listens. I walk to the locker room to see the guys before they play.

  Prissy isn’t gonna like this, but what can she do? It’s a three-piece suit. My silk tie is sharp, knotted with a half-Windsor. My shoes have a fresh coat of polish on them. I’m not wearing some costume store, off-rack purchase. This baby is custom tailored, snug fit.

  I’m following all her rules to a T. If she doesn’
t like the fabric, that’s a personal problem. Hot pink with banana-yellow pinstripes isn't everyone's taste in fashion, but I make this shit look good.

  My parents have reminded me many times over the years that I don’t get this rebellious streak from them. They like to blame genetics. My Dad’s brother is usually held up as proof of this theory. According to my folks, I’m just like him.

  From what I’ve heard about him, back in the day, it wouldn't shock me if I turned out to be his lovechild. If I didn’t know my mom better, I’d wonder. The family story that comes up the most at dinners is the time Uncle Rod was moving out of some sketchy apartment, back when he was fresh out of college.

  Out of all my parent’s siblings, Rod has always been a hands-down favorite. Nothing against my Aunt Margorie or Auntie Jean, but my uncle was just way more fun. The best kind of fun too. I learned all the best swear words from him. Not just the standard fucks and shits, but the creative stuff. Why call someone a shit when shitstain is so much worse? Most guys don’t care if you call them a douche, but douche-nozzle is a whole different level.

  There’s no doubt that Rod was probably a shitstain of a tenant. When he tells the story, he swears up and down there was zero damage to the apartment though. When he moved all his stuff out into the moving van, he says it looked good. There might have been a couple scuffs or light scratches, but that’s just normal wear and tear.

  His landlord didn’t see it that way. Rod went to get the unit inspected so he could get his damage deposit back, but the guy wouldn’t return his money. Apparently, it was written into the fine print of the rental agreement that he had to put a fresh coat of paint on the ceiling and every wall.

  My uncle was fuming, but he agreed to do it. He asked the guy to hook him up with the supplies. He wasn’t about to go buy a bunch of paint and brushes and all that shit. When his landlord refused to lend them to him, that’s when he really lost it.

  He put a fresh coat of paint on every wall and the ceiling. In black. Malicious compliance, just like this suit.

  I strut into the locker room to a bunch of catcalls and whistles. “That’s right, soak it in boys.” I turn around like I hit the end of the runway. Everyone is laughing. I’m not causing any harm, but Player grits his teeth. He’s pissed.

  When isn’t he? I ignore the glare. Rookie gives my tie a tug. “Well, she can’t be pissed about that. It’s not a clip on.”

  The guys are mostly dressed. There’s a few jersey’s missing, but other than that, they’re ready to go.

  Canuck walks across the rubber mat on his skates. The blades make him taller than me for once. “I forgot you had this.” He laughs. “Awesome.”

  “Is it weird that it suits him?” Gucci stays seated on the bench. “Like, in the right club, you could pull that off unironically. Just walk in like some baller pimp from the seventies…”

  “Blaze, Miami Vice called. They want their suit back,” Rookie cuts in.

  Everyone is laughing. Almost everyone. Player doesn’t even crack a smile. “Why are you in here?” His anger cuts through the laughter, and everyone quiets down.

  “I’m just giving my support, man. Chill.”

  “This isn’t support, you fucking clown. We’re fighting to get to the play-offs, and you’ve gotta make it all about you. This stupid back and forth with Prissy is just another distraction. How about you get out so we can focus on something other than you for once.”

  The guys start averting their eyes from me. All of a sudden, they’re preoccupied with tightening skates and wrapping sticks. Player is the only one who doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. He keeps staring me down.

  “Whatever.” I try to shrug it off. “Good luck, boys. Even you, Player.”

  Of course, I leave. Player made it clear I’m not welcome. I’m not ready to sit back down. I hate sitting in limbo between being a player and fan. Beer makes everything more tolerable, so I get in line at the stand.

  I still haven’t seen Prissy. I’m starting to think she isn’t coming. It would be a total boss move if she doesn’t bother checking in. I’m not gonna lie, I’d respect it.

  My phone dings with a text alert. There’s a picture of my winter jacket on the seat.

  Prissy: Is this a joke?

  Prissy just went from boss to babysitter in one text message.

  Me: No, that’s a jacket. Unless there’s a punchline you forgot?

  Prissy: Not funny. Where are you?

  Me: Chill. I’m at the game

  Prissy: You’re not. Your jacket is

  Me: So am I. You think I dropped my jacket and ran?

  Prissy: Wouldn’t put it past you

  I buy my beer and fire off one last text before I go to my seat.

  Me: I’m impossible to miss.

  Prissy: Cocky

  I don’t need to type anything else. My walk back to the arena seat is a short one. Prissy is still huffing and puffing down by my empty seat when I get to the top of the stairs. Her eyes are drawn to my neon-pink glory. I make my way down to her, smirking. I won this one. Hands down.

  She waits until I get beside her before she opens her mouth. Until then, she just lets the anger radiating off of her express all the words that are boiling up inside.

  “Is that beer?” Prissy knows the answer before she looks into the red, plastic cup.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” Prissy is very aware of all the people watching us. The suit is hard to miss. She keeps her voice low, but her quiet tone doesn’t hide her frustration one bit.

  “What? You told me to show up. I’m here. You told me where to sit. That’s my seat. You said to wear a suit. Well…” I turn open my arms to give her a better view.

  The mother who told me she would keep an eye on it is shamelessly listening in. So is her mini-me. So are a lot of people. Prissy opens her mouth but closes it again. I’ve never seen her speechless before. It’s pretty cute.

  “Yes, this is a beer, but I’m not breaking your underaged drinking rule. And look, no clip-on tie in sight.” I smile. Malicious compliance at it’s best.

  “This is over-the-top ridiculousness,” she hisses. “Where did you even get this?”

  “I had it lying around.” I shrug. “From Halloween a couple years ago.”

  “What did you dress up as? That Canadian hockey clown? You know, the commentator guy. Oh, what’s his name… Don Cherry?” She snaps her fingers as it comes to her.

  “Do I look like I’d make a good fucking Don Cherry?” That’s a low blow, and she knows it.

  “Yes.”

  “I dressed up as Connor McGregor.” I connect the dots for her. Everyone who watches MMA has seen him peacocking around in his custom-designed suits.

  “I can see that, actually,” she responds.

  “Yeah, it was a hit. We both have the muscles, the tattoos, the rugged beard.”

  “Why are you describing yourself like I can order you out of a magazine?” she interrupts. “That’s not why it was a good choice for you. It’s because you’re both epic assholes.”

  She’s got me there.

  “You know what? I’m not doing this with you. I’m actually happy you want to dress up and play games. Tomorrow, Westbury is sending athletes from all their teams to visit the children’s hospital. And guess what? You just signed yourself up as a volunteer.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Great. It starts at eight, so meet us in the parking garage by seven-thirty.”

  “Seven-thirty?” That makes her smile.

  “Yeah. Seven-thirty sharp. Oh, and I know you’re twenty-one, but how about you don’t show up smelling like a prom night limo?” She cocks her hand on her hip and arches one eyebrow.

  “Can’t make any promises,” I answer. “It’s my signature scent. That’s how I get all the cute chicks.” I wink at her.

  “Just sit in your seat, drink your beer, support your team and get your butt to the children’s hospital. We’re meeting in the park
ing garage at seven-thirty tomorrow. I’ll text you all the details. I expect you to be on time and dressed appropriately. Got it, Don?” Prissy storms off before I can answer.

  She’s had enough of me, apparently.

  I take my seat and watch the Warriors skate out on the ice. All of a sudden, it doesn’t feel right to be sitting here like an attention-seeking, pink flashing sign. I put my winter coat back on and slump back in my chair. This beer, this suit… it’s not a victory. Not really. Not when I’m still forced to sit on the sidelines.

  15

  Blaze’s Balloon Bonanza

  Priscilla

  Shoving my hand in my purse, I wrap my fingers around my phone and clutch it tightly. My eyes are closed as I pull it out, silently praying that it has no signal. The thick cement walls in the parking garage might be blocking my cell signal. I take a look and disappointment washes over me. Three bars. The awesome reception might make good bragging rights in a commercial, but it's bad news for me.

  Three bars mean there’s no traffic jam of texts waiting to come through from Blaze. Three bars mean he’s MIA. Anxiety was already twisting up in my stomach. Now it’s knotted so tight inside me, it could be my very own worry braid.

  I have no idea what I’m going to do. There are athletes from every team at Westbury huddled around. Waiting. Everyone knows who is holding us up, and not a single face out of the twenty looks surprised about it. A girl with long box braids whispers to a blonde with broad shoulders. They both laugh.

  “He probably doesn’t even know where he woke up this morning.” The blonde isn’t nearly as good at whispering.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.” I pretend I don’t hear her, even though she’s probably speaking the truth.

  What am I going to do if he doesn’t show? I ignore the group’s scrutiny. I ignore the annoyed faces and fire off another text.