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“Okay, Coach,” I agree. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the sly grin lighting up Levi’s smug face and ignore it. And him.
“Good girl. Levi, you and Saffron figure out your schedules. Classes start back up on Monday. Make it happen,” he commands as he stands. “Briggs, I’ll see you at practice in about an hour. Levi, I’ll see you at home for dinner before your game.”
Levi nods, “Yes, sir.”
We shuffle out of the office. Coach locks up behind us and heads deeper into the athletic building toward the meeting he said he had. That leaves just Levi and me, standing there, him smiling and me glaring.
“What are you smiling at?” Why? Why do I hate him so much? Because I know him. His type. Total jock, manwhore, campus stud. Thinks he’s God's gift and he can do anything he wants because he’s Levi “Sexy” Sexton. Well, he can keep thinking that. It’s not happening here. I’m not going to be one of the girls he’s used to.
“Am I smiling?” he asks in mock innocence. “I didn’t realize.” Lifting his bag higher onto his shoulder, he smiles wider. No, not smile. That’s too innocent a word. What he’s doing is cocky. Wicked. Dirty. It’s all there in the playful, flirty lift of his full lip. Just the corner lifted makes him look like a modern-day freaking Elvis or something. Practically breathing fire now, I move to pass him, but he grabs my elbow, stopping me.
“You gonna give me your number or what, Briggsy?” His tone is gruff, but I can hear the teasing in it.
“You wish.” I smirk. Take that, Sexy. Bet he’s never heard that before. “And don’t call me Briggsy.” He’s got some balls asking me for my number.
Running a hand over his lightly stubbled jaw, he watches me. Probably can’t believe all his hockey boy charm still isn’t working on me.
“Okay. Do you want mine, then?”
“Yeah, no,” I deadpan.
“Gonna be pretty hard to tutor you if we don’t get our schedules straight. I mean, we can give it a shot. You can just come to the rink and find me most days, but I’m sure you have better things to do than follow me around and wait for me to be available.” He pauses dramatically. “Like your girlfriend.”
“I. Don’t. Have. A. Girlfriend.” I seethe, just short of stomping my foot.
“Ahhhh, that’s right. A boyfriend.” Levi raises a finger as if he’s remembering something important. “An Ivy League boyfriend.” He whistles between his teeth. “Fancy, just like you.”
“You’re so obnoxious.”
“Am not,” he insists.
“Are too!” I counter until I realize he’s playing me, and I just fell right into his trap.
He grins, causing a dimple to pop in his cheek, which does nothing but make my eyes narrow even more. Stupid dimples.
“So how about it, Briggsy? Am I calling you, or are you calling me?”
I refuse to give him my number on principle now. “Get my number from one of your sisters,” I mutter, turning on my heel and stalking away as he stands there laughing at me. Fuck Levi Sexton and his stupid dimples.
Chapter 4
Levi
God, she hates me. It shouldn’t make me so happy but fuck me if it doesn’t.
Chuckling to myself, I hurry toward the rink for practice. Suddenly being up this early isn’t so bad.
The music is loud as fuck, blasting from the speakers around the locker room. The minute I hear the song, I know we’re listening to Murphy’s playlist today. He’s the only motherfucker our age who listens to opera. Goalies are crazy superstitious, and when he was a kid, his coach played the shit before every game. He told them it was to keep them focused, and therefore, they’d be less likely to get injured and more likely to play to the best of their abilities. So Murph being the superstitious fuck that he is, listens every time he takes the ice. Loudly. If it’s not his turn to control the music, he has his earbuds firmly in place. I won’t admit it to him, but I’ve developed a fondness for the Three Tenors over the years we’ve played together.
Making my way around the team logo in the center of the floor, I stop in front of my locker and watch Murphy use his yellow bottle of powder as a mic. Eyes closed, he belts out the song that I won’t even attempt to name in a respectable tenor. There are nine of us in the room, and we’re all watching him, enthralled and a little horrified. Giving him an audience is never a good idea but come on! The guy is actually standing here singing to his ass and ball powder. I’m not sure if we're horrified about the mic choice or the fact that he’s in nothing but a jock strap. Both are a straight-up tragedy.
He finishes with a bow and a flash of bare ass before going back to the rest of his crazy routine.
“What’s up, Sexton?” my boy Jack calls from his stall across from mine. “Heard you had a party last night. I was worried you would come stumbling in late today.” He snickers.
Pulling my hoodie over my head and hanging it on the hook, I glance over at him. “Nah, you know better than that.” I grin, toeing off my gym shoes. “No hangover from too much pussy.”
“Fucker,” Jack huffs out.
