Unsportsmanlike Conduct

by Sophia Henry

  Delayed Penalty

  A Pilots Hockey Novel

  by Sophia Henry

  Available from Flirt

  Chapter 1

  When you’re twenty years old, there’s nothing music and a drink can’t cure.

  At least that was my best friend’s response when I told her I’d been cut from Central State’s women’s soccer team that morning.

  The overzealous stylings of two drunk chicks bellowing “It’s Raining Men” wafted through the air, and I’d just received my vodka club from the bartender, so why did it still feel like someone had scratched my heart out with a serrated shovel?

  Maybe “It’s Raining Men” wasn’t the right song?

  Or maybe my friend’s remedy lacked one vital piece. Like, five minutes locked in a bathroom stall with the crazy-haired hottie approaching me. His head was buzzed short on the sides, leaving a thick patch of dark locks, gelled into a neat pompadour in front. Sort of like 1920s gangster, except less slicked, more height.

  Every muscle in Crazy Hair’s body rippled under his clothing as he walked. He had to be over six feet tall, with a broad chest and massive arms stretching the seams of his long-sleeved black Henley. His skin was smooth and pale, a contrast to the thick dark eyebrows resting above his jump-in-and-drown-in-me blue eyes. From the scar on his left cheek to the smug smirk of his lips, he was exactly my type: dangerous, confident, and totally lickable.

  I flipped my long blond hair behind my shoulder and glanced to my left, pretending Crazy Hair’s advance had no effect on me. In reality, I’d checked to make sure that he wouldn’t pass me up on the way to some beautiful bombshell I hadn’t noticed standing in the vicinity.

  Like when you see someone wave, so you wave back. Then you realize they weren’t waving at you but the person behind you. So you try to play off your lame wave like you were batting away mosquitoes, which aren’t there because it’s December in Canada. Just trying to avoid an awkward situation like that.

  Crazy Hair continued to close in, before stopping just inches away.

  I’d opened my mouth to ream him out for stepping too far into my personal space, but the sweet scent of clove cigarettes flooded warmth through me like a sip of hot chocolate on a January morning in the Upper Peninsula.

  “You work at post office?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent.

  “Um, no.” I took a swig of my drink. Though I was unsure where he was going with that line, he was hot enough for me to stick around.

  The left corner of his mouth curved into that sexy little smirk. “Because I see you check out my package.”

  Carbonation stung my nose as I snorted and choked trying to hold in my laugh. Without time to turn my head, I sprayed vodka club and saliva across the front of Crazy Hair’s shirt.

  Awesome.

  “Weak!” I heard from somewhere behind me.

  I turned to see who had yelled, still coughing as I noticed a group of guys and girls at the high-top table behind me. Shaggy blond hair bounced against one guy’s forehead as he snickered. The dude next to him held his fist in front of his mouth in a horrible attempt to hide his laughter. A brunette in a tight red sweater didn’t look amused. At all.

  Crazy Hair threw the guys not one but both of his middle fingers.

  “That girl’s a fucking smoke show. Why’d he use a shitty line like that?” the blond one said.

  Smoke show? I bit down hard on my lip to fight back a smile. The last time I’d heard that phrase was in high school from my hockey-playing best friend, who’d informed me that “smoke show” was player lingo for “hot girl.”

  Unsure of how to recover any semblance of cool after spitting my drink across Crazy Hair’s muscular chest, I spun around and shuffled back to the table my friends occupied in front of the karaoke stage.

  It felt weird to drink in public, though we’d been to Canada on multiple occasions. As lifelong residents of Detroit, Michigan, we thought of Windsor—the Canadian city connected to Detroit by a bridge and a tunnel—as the next town over, rather than a foreign country. Nineteen was the legal drinking age in Windsor, so it made sense for underage Americans like us to cross the border for some legit cocktails.

  My butt had barely brushed my seat when I heard my name, and my name alone, called over the speakers. I lifted my eyes to the outdated popcorn ceiling, as if the voice resonated from the heavens beyond, rather than the karaoke host.

  “Why is he calling my name?” I asked Kristen.

  “I picked you a song,” she responded, taking a swig of her beer.

  “You picked us a song, you mean?” Emphasis on the us, because I’d never sung alone in my life—not counting the shower and car, of course.

  “Nope. Just you.” Kristen placed both hands on my back and pushed me toward the stage. “You need to sing it out. Keeping shit bottled up never works.”

  I had no problem singing it out if I was singing with other people, but not when it was just me. Hadn’t I been embarrassed enough today?

  My short-lived “smoke show” happiness vanished, and the embarrassment of making a fool of myself in front of Crazy Hair returned. I tried to reverse, but Kristen’s trampoline-like hands propelled me back toward the stage.

  Climbing onto the stage, I snatched the microphone out of the host’s hand. I almost felt bad about taking my anger out on him until I saw the lyrics to “Proud Mary” light up in white against the teleprompter’s blue screen. Fuck.

  What the hell? I exhaled and lifted my eyes to Kristen.

  “Girl power!” She saluted me with her glass.

  Was “Proud Mary” a girl-power song? I thought it was about a boat.

  “Do you have ‘Good Feeling’?” I asked the karaoke host. He was around my age, with big brown eyes matching his neat, trimmed beard and his shoulder-length hair.

  “Flo Rida?” he asked, as disapproving wrinkles formed on his smooth forehead.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “The Violent Femmes.”

  A smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. “Give me a second.”

  While waiting for my song, I took in the scenery at Mickey O’Callaghan’s Irish Pub. The space itself was cozy; small and narrow with red and beige brick walls and mahogany overkill. The dark wood was everywhere: the long bar, the wainscoting, the narrow beams on the ceiling, even the tables and chairs. Evidently Mickey’s was the place to be for Friday-night karaoke, because bodies occupied every seat, and the bar was two people deep all the way across.

  Instead of looking toward the table that Crazy Hair had thrown double birds to, I watched the karaoke host fiddle with his machine. After a minute, the screen glowed with the lyrics to my request.

  My face burned when my voice cracked delivering the first note. My eyes stayed glued to the teleprompter, even though I knew the words by heart. After the first few lines, I got my vocals on track, and I heard some clapping, which surprised me. Halfway through the song, I raised my eyes to see people on their feet, people other than the friends I had come with, although my friends were on their feet as well. By the time I finished the song, the crowd was hooting and whistling. Someone yelled for me to sing again, but I just smiled as I refastened the microphone to the stand.

  “You were amazing, Aud!” Kristen squeezed me when I got back to the table.

  “I didn’t know you could sing like that.” Lacy raised her hand for a high five.

  “I didn’t either,” I admitted, skimming my palm against hers, sure I’d zap her with the electricity tingling through my limbs. Being onstage felt like overtime at a soccer match: exhilarating and exciting.

  “Hey,” someone said, tapping my shoulder. I spun around to see the karaoke host.

  “Greg.” He thrust his hand at me.

  “Auden,” I said, taking his outstretched palm. “Thanks for switching songs.”

  “Tina Turner didn’t seem like your thing.” Greg might’ve had a cute face hiding under his beard. Still not my type, though. Too monotone. Even the plaid flannel hanging of
f his lean frame was brown. His style screamed Eddie Vedder, nineties grunge rather than today’s hipster cool.

  “Oh, I can rock some Tina. Just wasn’t feeling ‘Proud Mary’ without my backup dancers.” I pointed to Kristen and Lacy.

  Greg laughed. “Need a drink?”

  “I already have—” I searched the table for my drink, spotting it in Lacy’s boyfriend’s hand. “Actually, I do.”

  Ignoring Kristen’s megawatt smile, I followed Greg to the bar. She better not have set him on me to boost my spirits. She knew he wasn’t my type. Douchebags like Crazy Hair and the guys he’d flipped off got my motor running. Douchebags and I were on the same wavelength. Neither of us wanted more than the other could offer.

  Greg moved to the side so I could order. “Club soda with three limes, please.”

  “And a Steam Whistle.” Greg pointed to a beer I didn’t recognize in the stand-up cooler behind the bar. The bartender nodded and extracted a bottle.

  “You’ve got a killer voice,” Greg said.

  “Well, there’re no Tina Turner–type vocals in that song.” I blew off his compliment.

  “No, but it’s hard to sing that soft and keep your key.” His mouth curved into a wide, kind smile. “You from around here?”

  “Detroit,” I said, nodding. “But I go to Central State.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  I shook my head and picked up the drink the bartender had placed in front of me.

  “So do I. That’s crazy.” Greg held up a few bills, waiting until the bartender saw the money before setting it on the bar. “My roommates and I have a band and we’re looking for a singer right now.”

  “You’re in a band? That’s awesome,” I said, focused on mashing the limes in my drink. I raised my glass to him. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “No problem.” He picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Any interest?”

  “In what?” I asked, looking at Greg over the top of my cup.

  “Singing for our band.” He didn’t even blink.

  “You’re joking, right?” I laughed. Asking me to sing in his band after hearing one karaoke song was hilarious. I’d never taken voice lessons, and as far as I knew, I didn’t have any significant talent.

  “Why would I joke?” He didn’t seem to understand my laughter at all.

  “I just sang in public for the first time and you’re asking me if I want to be in a band?” Being the center of attention for five minutes in a karaoke bar was one thing; standing onstage in front of people expecting a show was a different beast.

  “So that explains your lack of stage presence,” Greg said as he ran his fingers over his beard, looking more English professor than rocker.

  “Quite the charmer, aren’t you, G-man?” I took a drink. I knew I didn’t have stage presence. Hell, I didn’t make eye contact.

  “Stage presence can be learned,” he said. “You have a great voice and a hot look.”

  Once I realized he wasn’t kidding, I was speechless.

  Greg continued peeling the label off his beer bottle as he waited for me to speak. “It’s nothing crazy. We just play bars in Bridgeland, well, mostly at Wreckage.” He chuckled.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so, but thanks for asking.” I forced a half smile.

  “Come on,” he pleaded. “Just try out. If you like it, great.”

  “I don’t think I could even learn to be comfortable onstage.”

  “I can get you over your stage fright.” Greg’s voice was molasses, thick and smooth; a contrast to his grunge-hipster vibe. The lights flickering above gave his previously plain eyes a sensuous sparkle as he waited for my answer.

  Why did I have to be a sucker for sparkles? “Okay, sure.” My head bobbed in reluctant consent. “The worst that could happen is I fail miserably, right?”

  “You might surprise me.” Greg winked. He searched the bar before grabbing a pen lying on an abandoned credit card receipt. Then he flipped over a coaster advertising some brewing company’s winter ale and began scribbling. “Here’s my number. Call me next week for an audition.”

  “This is crazy.” I took the coaster from him.

  “What do you have to lose?” His eyes were solid and intense as he stared at me.

  Nothing. I’d long since lost it all. But he didn’t know that.

  Without another word, he walked away, leaving me alone at the bar, perplexed by the interaction.

  “What did Eddie Vedder’s son have to say?” Kristen asked, nodding toward Greg, who had resumed his place behind the karaoke machine. Of course Kristen would think of a similar description for his look. It was one of the many reasons we’d been calling each other the “other half” since the first day of freshman year when we were assigned the same dorm room.

  “He wants me to try out for his band,” I said, flashing her the coaster. “Which is stupid.”

  “No it isn’t.” She snatched my hand and squeezed. “You’re really good.”

  I shook my head. Right now I was high from my time onstage and the applause and compliments I’d received, but as soon as I got home and thought about the unexpected conclusion to my soccer career again, the euphoria would abandon me. Just like my team had.

  Just like everyone does.

  “You’re a popular lady tonight. The Mohawked hottie stared at you the entire time you talked to karaoke guy.”

  I followed Kristen’s gaze to the table where Crazy Hair and his friends were sitting. Though the group seemed to be leaving, downing their drinks and grabbing their coats, Crazy Hair stood still, his penetrating eyes on me.

  I had a feeling he was the type of guy who would say anything to get me to take him home, and then slink away without a word the next morning. Though drinking had usually been involved when that had happened, I couldn’t even blame the alcohol. I fell for guys like him because I needed the attention. I needed to feel like someone wanted me. I needed to pretend that someone might be able to love me.

  The way my parents should have loved me.

  It was an impossible void to fill.

  Crazy Hair slid one of the muscular arms I’d admired earlier around the shoulders of the girl with the tight red sweater. She had big everything. Big hair, big boobs, big smile. Still holding my gaze, he said something against her ear, and she threw her head back in a laugh revealing big white teeth. Moving his hand to her back, he allowed her to go first as they followed the rest of the group toward the door.

  Which reminded me of another definition of smoke show: to dominate, crush, or otherwise humiliate the opposition.

  Mission accomplished.

  Douche.

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