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Chuckling is the background music of my humiliation. I cough away the pain and wipe my nose with the back of my sweaty arm. Only then do I turn the full weight of my glare on the culprit.
“Max Cassiano,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You know me, Tinker Bell?”
He’s not wearing his helmet, and his dark hair sticks to his head, heavy with sweat. A drop falls from his nose, more still from his chin. I’m glad he’s being tortured, too, but he doesn’t look to be suffering as much as I am. It pisses me off.
“Who doesn’t?” I ask, my voice deadpan. “You’re like the best hockey player to come out of this town.”
I put my bottle on top of the cooler and grab another one, getting to work before one of the coaches comes out demanding speed.
His hands don’t shake as he tops up his bottle from the other cooler. “Not really. There are plenty of players better than me.”
His words don’t carry any of that sugary sweet false modesty I’d have expected. He really believes this.
“Whatever. And stop calling me that silly name.”
“But it’s cute and adorable, like you.”
“Do you want to die?” I squeeze the bottle I’m filling up as if it were his neck.
I hate that his eyes are as true blue as this freaking drink, and that they twinkle when he makes fun of me. Should I squeeze the contents out of the bottle in his face?
No, that’s maybe not the best way to start my college hockey life.
“I have a word of advice for you,” I say while I gather as many drink bottles as my arms can carry. Then I smile. “Get bent.”
“That’s two words, though.” He gives me a condescending look. He’s lucky my hands are too busy to slap it off his face.
With more energy than I thought I had, I turn around, ready to walk away from this sham of a conversation. As I do, there’s a small gasp.
I glance at him over my shoulder. His eyes are glued to my back. Not to my bottom, like I’d expect from some guys.
It takes me a second to remember that I’m in my sports bra, which means everyone can see the paraspinal scar that runs all the way down the base of my neck to my coccyx. The shock in his face is usually the reaction it gets. Without knowing the details, people can guess I went through some shit.
I snort. “Not so tiny and delicate now, huh?”
His eyes snap back up to mine. I flip my long braided hair over my shoulder and walk away. And what a luxury it is being able to do so.
CHAPTER 3
MAX
While campus is abuzz with parties during the week before the semester starts, the hockey program is subjected to torture.
The first drill every morning consists of jogging for an hour. Usually, the Bolts head one direction and the Strikes the opposite. If the two groups risk crossing paths, the coaches steer us the opposite way. When we’re on the ice, they’re at the gym and vice versa. If we meet members from the opposite team in the halls, the insults that get traded range from sailor- to trucker- to elementary-schooler levels. And this petty animosity doesn’t stay there.
I’m in the gym, squatting with weights on my shoulders that equate to slightly over my own body mass, listening to the guys go on and on about the girls.
“I can’t believe they did that,” Nate Garcia, a defenseman, says between pull-ups. “Like, if you pay close attention, you can hear my stomach roaring.”
It’s not just him. All of us are sluggish with hunger thanks to the little prank the Strikes pulled on us. They made it to lunch before us and polished off all the meat.
On cue, my stomach roars like a lion. Six feet, three inches and two hundred ten pounds can’t be sustained on bread and vegetables, like I had for lunch today.
“On the plus side,” I say while grunting through the last squat of the series. “They gotta be having the meat sweats.”
Which also leads to sluggishness. And we all know coaches love it when a team has no energy. They’re probably getting their own punishment right now.
