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I laugh. “Like me? Please, go on. I’m all ears.”
“You know. The good-girl type. Smart, gets good grades, never gets in trouble.”
I can feel the heat of Becca’s glare from across the room. She’s basically snarling at me, in a way that makes me hope she’s had all of her shots. “Why don’t you fake-date Becca? She’d be all over you like a heat rash.”
He flashes a quick glance at her and grimaces. “Yeah... the coach doesn’t like her. She’s a jersey girl. She’s kind of working her way through the whole team. I mean, I’ve hit that a few times, but...”
I screw up my face in disgust. “Ugh. I don’t need details. I don’t know...” I frown. “It would have to be strictly platonic. As in, no messing around. At all.”
“I knew what platonic meant.” He looks indignant.
I shake my head at him. “No, you didn’t.”
Nick gives me a wry grin. He can be kind of charming, sometimes. “No, I didn’t,” he agrees. “But that’s totally fine. We’ll just be seen in public together, and when we’re in class, I’ll always sit next to you, and that way What’s-his-ass won’t come around and give you any crap.”
Pax’s face flashes in front of me, and I feel a faint twinge. I should send him a text about this... shouldn’t I?
I mean, I haven’t heard a single word from him in a couple of weeks, while he was doing his physical therapy at some fancy sports rehab place upstate. But still...
I’ve got about one minute left.
I quickly slide my cell phone out of my purse. Hey Paxton, I no longer need a fake date! A grateful nation thanks you for your service. So yeah you no longer have to fake it ha ha ha ha... I know, keep my day job. I follow that with five smiley faces.
“Ruby? Got something you want to share with the class?” Whats-his-ass’s sarcastic voice slices through the air.
“Not a thing,” I shoot back, and I lean in towards Nick, who throws his arm around my shoulders.
Becca actually gasps. I wonder how long ago Nick “hit that.” Please don’t let it be last night, please don’t let it be last night...
I am rewarded with a glower from Professor Nass, who abruptly turns his back on me and starts writing on the board.
Please. He didn’t want it when he had it. Typical man.
And a faint chill settles over me. Alex, I mean the professor, is not a nice man when he’s crossed.
1
PAX
Every seat in the stand is full.
The stadium throbs with excitement and anticipation.
It’s game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. Only the biggest, most important game of my hockey career. No pressure or anything.
My family’s flown in and are sitting in the stands. After all, football season ended last week, with my brothers crushing it as usual, so my parents can spare a little time for their second—distant second—favorite game. This is the first game of mine they’ve been to all season. They didn’t make it to any of my games last year.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that, or the fact that in high school and college, entire years passed where they would make it to one of my games, if I was lucky, but they made it to every one of my three older brothers’ practices and games. The whole reason they gave me a car at sixteen is so I could drive myself to practice.
Hey, it paid off. Aiden, Marshall, and Hayes are all NFL players, and everyone in our home town of Devil’s Fork, Texas, worships my family like gods.
It doesn’t matter. At the moment, the only thing that matters is winning this game – and, maybe, proving myself to my family.
It’s the first period, and I haven’t been on the ice for long, this is only my second shift. The Michigan Blasters center slices past me and attempts to check me. He’s known for playing dirty. I slide out of the way just in time, and he staggers, trips, and falls on his ass.
From across the rink, Knox Harper, our right wing, flashes me a thumbs up.
That was an asshole move on the center’s part, and any other time I would probably have gotten all up in his grill about it, but I’m not taking any chances in this game. I may have to kick some ass later, but I’m not getting a penalty unless I absolutely have to.
