She purses her lips and eyes me incredulously. “Have you been to the doctor? Because I’m pretty positive that flu is making you a little loopy.” She taps the top of my head for effect, and I use what little energy I have to bat her hand away. “Zack Graves, the best center on the school’s hockey team!”
Her nearly-squealed statement has me rolling my eyes. Between the two of us, Lexi Scholl is by far the more sociable one. Had we not roomed together our freshman year, I doubt we would have ever become friends. She runs in an entirely different circle.
When I first enrolled at Oakland, I didn’t want to keep burdening Christos by living with him. Part of me has always felt guilty that he’s had to raise a child who isn’t even biologically his, so I made the decision to live in the dorms. Upon walking into my assigned room, I found Lexi with flaming red hair, blasting Backstreet Boys. Needless to say, we didn’t exactly hit it off, what with her love of parties and my intense hatred of them. But after many nights of laughing and bonding over our favorite movies and just general life shit, Lexi’s quirkiness won me over. Because of my intense hatred of both sharing a communal bathroom and the constant noise of dorm-life, I chose to move back home while she pledged to a sorority. Still, we never go a day without talking.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me, Lex?” Now I sound impatient. What the hell do I care who this guy is? Being an athlete doesn’t give him the right to be a jackass during class.
She snorts. “Dahly, I think it means something to everyone but you. Ask anyone in this school who Zack Graves is and I can guarantee they’ll know.” She taps a finger on her chin. “I’m fairly certain Christie has hooked up with him a few times.”
Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Hot guy with the social status of a god? Those credentials have Christie written all over them, social climber that she is. She’s climbing her way up the social totem pole by sleeping with guys who have reputations, and so far, she’s gotten relatively far.
I snatch my saltines out of her hands while she continues to munch on the only solid food I’ve been able to keep down in weeks. “That still doesn’t explain why he would offer to—”
A thought dawns on me. What it was all a ploy? What if he was just acting like a little helpy helperton to get back at me for yelling at him?
“That motherfucker,” I say in disbelief. “Lex, he was never going to give me my homework. He was just being an errant little brat about me telling him off.”
Realization washes over her features, and she nods. “You know, I bet you’re right. He was acting a little funny when your professor grilled him.”
All praise Professor Cormac and his expertise with criminal profiling.
What a shithead! All because I told him to show a little respect and silence his phone. It’s not as if I told him to stop using it at all. I couldn’t give a flying fuck if he pays attention or not to the lectures. I just wanted to be able to do as much without him distracting me. So help me, if I make it out of this bed alive, I’m going to kill him.
I must be burning a hole through one of the innocent little starfish scattered between the shells of my bedding, because Lexi snaps her fingers in front of my face with warning in her eyes.
“Dahlia, whatever it is you’re thinking of doing, don’t do it. I’m the one who got your homework, and I brought it to you safe and sound.” She pats at the folders in her hand.
Sighing, I let my head fall back on the headboard. My skull punishes me with a sharp pain between my eyes. Infuriated as I may be, she’s one hundred percent right. Cormac foiled whatever Zack was planning, so no harm no foul.
But I swear to all that is holy, if he tries anything else, his precious phone won’t be going out the window, as I’d originally threatened, but crammed down his sneaky little throat. I’d like to see how chatty he is then.
HALLE-FUCKIN-LUJAH FOR THE WEEKENDS. TWO days in a row when I get to fucking sleep in and not drag my ass out the door with cobwebs in my brain. Sure, I’ve got practice, but that’s not work. It’s my life. The rink is my home, my safe haven. And games are like my paradise. I live for the adrenaline rush. For screaming across the ice and watching other players’ helmets spin round while I fly past. It’s addictive, and I’m a firm believer that everyone should throw on a pair of skates and experience it themselves at least once in their life.
Keith and I started playing street hockey when we were around nine years old. I was a natural on a set of roller blades. Then one winter day, my father took the two of us out on a frozen lake. My older brother, Finn, couldn’t be bothered to stray from one of those metal building sets he was obsessed with. That was a day that changed my life.
My father has always been a lover of hockey. He played all through high school and for a couple of years in college, until a torn MCL took him out. He’s my biggest supporter—he and my mom, that is.
“There is no such thing as destiny, Zack. We forge our own paths in life. The greatest part will be the journey. The mistakes you’ve made, the things you’ve learned, and the amazing views you were rewarded with that you may not have otherwise seen.”
Five years after her passing, my mother’s voice is getting more and more difficult for me to hear, but her words, those are tattooed on my heart.
My head jerks at the sound of ceramic crashing on the tile floor of the kitchen, followed by an, “Aw, shitballs!” from Keith.
Since, for once, there was no Friday party at our place, the jackass probably isn’t used to shit actually being put away.
Keith grabs himself a new mug, tucks it into the Keurig, and pops in one of those little cups. I’ve never been a fan of those things. I like my coffee made the old-fashioned way, in a pot. An argument Keith and I had for months before he bought himself a single-serve machine.
“Party tonight at Theta Chi. You in?” he asks as the coffee brews with a disgusting spitting sound.
My lip curls as it touches my own coffee mug. “Don’t you ever fucking stop? There’s more to life than partying.”
He scoffs. “This coming from the same guy who spent his entire freshman year blasted out of his damn mind?”
“I’m just saying, let’s cool it this weekend, okay? Hit the gym for a bit, maybe go to the pub down the road with the guys?” I know it’s a long shot, but a quieter and less chaotic weekend sounds pretty fucking fantastic.
“Yeah, yeah.” He opens the fridge and retrieves the milk carton. “You’re losing your edge, man, you know that?”
I give him a smug look from the edge of my mug. “This coming from the guy who had his ass chewed out by Coach for his partying habits two weeks ago.”
Keith clicks his tongue against his teeth and snarls while he leans back against the countertop. “Fuck you, Z.”
Yeah, that’s what I thought. His parents may not give a shit what he does—I have a strong feeling that’s why he parties so often—but Coach is the father figure to the entire team. While he cares about us all, if he sees any sign of fuckery, he’s gonna lay into you without mercy. It’s why he’s one of the top coaches in the NCAA.
After dropping his empty mug in the metal sink, he throws a punch at my shoulder when he walks past me. “Fine, we’ll just ‘cool it.’ Pansy ass.”
I have to bite back a laugh as he stomps up the carpeted staircase like a child sent to his room for getting called to the principal’s office.
Lacing my fingers behind my head, I stretch out my chest, groaning at the resulting series of popping sounds in my back. Ah, finally. A weekend without having to feel like walking through a can of sardines, and no pounding headache or cotton mouth when I wake up tomorrow.
A light breeze rustles the trees as we walk past a string of coffee shops filled with students, some typing furiously on their laptops, others biting their thumbs as they stare blankly into the endless abyss of an assignment. October has snuffed out the last remnants of summer with cooler temperatures and the smell of fall foliage.
Personally, I’ve always felt
summer is overrated. I hate breaking into a sweat the second I step out of the door. For obvious reasons, I’m much more of a winter guy, and Michigan is loaded with some of the best ice arenas in the country. Not to mention we boarder the hockey Mecca itself, Canada.
After having spent a good chunk of the morning in the gym, I’m in immediate need of food. My stomach growls audibly as if illustrating just how urgent the situation is.
While heading to one of our favorite wings spots, two of our team’s defensemen, Aaron and Dave, trail behind Keith and me. Dave’s grinding into Aaron after proclaiming him the worst spotter on the planet.
“You were supposed to spot me! That’s what a spotter fucking does, you asshat. The title itself is the job,” Dave sputters while Aaron looks exasperated.
“Dude, that chick’s pants were see-through! See-through!” he gestures with his hands. “And I’m fairly certain she wasn’t wearing panties. You can’t pass up the chance to look at that!”
Dave dismisses him with a wave while Keith and I turn our attention back ahead of us.
Muffled bellows and chaotic clamoring can be heard through the windows of one of the shops we pass. I stop and peer up at a sign that says Anastas Mixed Martial Arts and assume it’s one of those places that teaches elementary-aged students how to yell and kick like mini Bruce Lees.
And then I peek into the window and stop dead in my tracks when both my eyes and breath catch upon seeing a familiar shade of auburn hair.
She hasn’t shown up to class in two weeks. The first week, I was disappointed. The second, I was downright annoyed that she’d managed to evade my plan to toy with her.
But here she is, clad in loose running shorts, a black top with mesh cut-outs on the rib cage, and bare feet. A familiar wave of lust licks its way up the back of my neck when I stare at her long legs. They’re not so scrawny I can wrap my entire hand around the top of her thigh. No, they’re built in a way that displays carefully honed strength and power. What I wouldn’t give to feel those thighs wrapped around my neck.
My brows pinch together. Where the fuck did that come from?
Keith’s profile invades my peripheral vision as he moves in to see the beauty who’s causing my eye-stalking session. He looks utterly confused—until he follows my gaze and a knowing look engulfs his face. His lopsided grin’s on full display.
“Let’s see . . . ” he drones. I know I’m in for it now. “About 5’7”, reddish hair, and . . .” He squints, using his hand like a visor to feign getting a closer look. “Hmm, too far away to see those piercing blue eyes.”
Unable to muster even a weak retort, I stare, my face at the window like a Peeping fucking Tom, as she stands beside two sinewy guys in wifebeaters and gym shorts facing off on the center of a blue mat. Several others dressed in similar attire stand off to the side as they watch the pair dodge jabs and try to hook an arm around the other’s neck.
Dahlia steps between them when one has his hands clasped on the other’s shoulders. She demonstrates the correct hold while they both pay careful attention to her instruction. My eyes shoot back up to the name in blocky red letters on the sign. Anastas. Does she fucking own this place?
By the time the two men resume their practice, the four of us are watching with our noses practically pressed against the glass like a bunch of kids waiting for it to stop raining so we can play outside.
Dave cuts in. “Someone mind filling me in on what the fuck we’re looking at? I’m seriously craving hot wings and greasy fries.”
Before I can offer a casual, “Nothing, let’s go,” Keith has to open his fat fucking trap. “The redhead in there is the goddess who told our boy off a couple of weeks ago.”
Dave and Aaron give a slow nod.
“Ah, so this is the phone Nazi,” Aaron says.
Intent on twisting my arm even further, Keith continues. “Haven’t you mentioned wanting to bait her a little bit, but she’s been out of class lately?”
His tone gives me surge of warning, and now I’m furious with myself for opening my fat trap to him. He’s not really going to suggest I barrel in there, is he?
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a window of opportunity. Pun fully intended.”
Yep, he is.
I gesture to indicate at the mass of people inside. “She’s clearly working, man. And considering she flipped her lid over my phone in class, I think it’s safe to say she’ll throw a conniption if I interrupt her now.”
“All the more fun for us.” He gleams, and it’s all I can do to not smack that goofy-ass grin off his face.
When I look back at the window, glacial blue eyes lock onto mine. Shit, caught in the act.
Keith erupts in a belly laugh when he notices that she’s spotted me. Asshole. He pulls away from the window, swings open the door, and juts inside. Dave and Aaron follow, leaving me staring at them from behind the safety of the glass. For a second, I consider making a run for it, but since Dahlia has already seen me—and who the fuck knows what my so-called friends or more like traitors will say on my behalf—I take a moment to collect myself and follow them inside like the damn stalker I now officially am.
I’m so fucked.
I WAS ONLY MILDLY IRKED when I caught a familiar blue gaze practically stalking me from the window. But when his meathead friends walked in, I seethed.
A week ago, when Lexi left, I’d sworn to make good on my agreement to cease any and all plans to exact my revenge on Zack for his scheming. I was going to let it slide, as Lexi had so maturely advised. Ordinarily, I’m not the revenge-seeking type. But attempting to mess with my school work is a step too far.
One of the guys with Zack has a wicked gleam in his eyes. Tall and borderline lanky, he has sandy-brown hair and a white T-shirt illustrated by a smile face emoji with a blood splatter in the center of the forehead. They clearly have a purpose coming in here. What exactly that purpose is remains unknown.
The last one to enter the studio is Zack, and if I’m gauging his reaction accurately, he’s pissed off too. Question is whether it’s directed at me or his friends.
Unsure and extremely cautious as to how to proceed, I’m thankful when Christos steps in front of them. Though I’m doing the instructing today, Christos accompanied me to observe and correct any errors I might make. Even though I was feeling better by the end of last week, Christos insisted I stay home to rest. No school, and no studio. The latter was almost worse than the sickness itself. But he just wanted to help, so I didn’t protest.
Folding his arms across his chest, Christos addresses the group of guys. “What can we do for you gentlemen today? As I’m sure you can see, we’re currently in the middle of a session and a new instructor is training.” He tilts his head toward me.
Lanky guy speaks first. “Excuse our interruption.” He juts his thumb behind him at Zack, whose eyes grow wide with alarm. Is that fear on the cocky hockey star’s face? “Our friend here knows the new instructor, and he was wondering if she could spare time for a quick chat.”
A quick chat? Is this puck pusher for fucking real? If it’s about the phone issue, now is not the time and place to be discussing it.
With his back toward me, I can’t see Christos’s expression, but when he turns on his heel and motions me forward, I silently curse. Rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I stand beside Christos, not looking at Zack or his friends but at a silver Honda parked in front of the studio. If I make eye contact with him, steam will surely spew out of my ears, and I don’t want anyone knowing this guy has any effect on me. Even if it is just anger.
When my eyes finally rest on Zack, he has the nerve to look a little sheepish.
“What do you want?” I ask.
The three of them and Christos look at him. Singling him out as the metaphorical fly in the punchbowl.
His eyes dart to each person before resting on me. “Uh . . .” He licks his lips.
For reasons I cannot explain, I stare at his lips a little too long, and I give a small
shake of my head to stop any subsequent thoughts from popping up.
While he stares at me blankly, the wheels in his head clearly grinding for an answer, one of his friends—the one with olive-colored skin and jet-black hair—smacks him right in the crotch.
Zack’s hand reflexively covers the area before he stammers, “Uhh . . . I was just coming in to sign up for classes.”
Bullshit. I seriously doubt that’s what he came in for, but since he walked straight up to the rabbit hole, the temptation to push him through it is too great.
When I answer, my voice is dripping with derisive venom. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about whose head you’re going to bash in with your hockey stick?”
Christos pins me with a glare as if he doesn’t know what has gotten into me.
Ignoring him, I press on. “It takes commitment and experience to be in this group, but feel free to sign up for the junior classes. Meet up is Wednesday evenings.” I turn around, fully expecting this meaningless conversation to be done.
Then a voice chimes in from behind me. “He has experience!”
When I turn back, the lanky one nudges the shoulder of the one with dirty-blond hair, who coughs into his fist before responding.
“Uh, yeah, years of it.” He clamps his lips shut, suppressing a laugh.
Rather than being totally irate, as I was when they first walked in, I find myself baffled and maybe a touch amused. Strangely, it almost feels as if his friends, rather than being on his side, are on mine, like they are playing with fire to watch their friend get burned. It looks as though I’m teetering along the edge of the rabbit hole too. But I’m willing to edge a little further to see which of us falls in first.
“All right then, so you wouldn’t have a problem giving the group a little demonstration to prove your mastery?” I say, testing him to see what lengths he’s willing to go to. It’s more than obvious how full of it he is.
Sweet Insanity (Sweet Series Book 1) Page 3