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Besides, men are just so… well, ridiculous. Even here in one of the more liberal cities in the country, I meet plenty of incel types who want little more than to go head-to-head with me on my chosen studies. Too many men live to try and knock a strong woman down a notch or two. Especially a woman with a semi-famous father and brother-in-law.
Men, or boys rather, are equal parts jealous of my family’s talent, envious of their lifestyle, and hateful that they don’t have the same. All of that somehow leads them to want to fuck me but also make me feel inferior to them. As if I have anything to do with my dad or Cillian’s success. Like saying they fucked the coach’s daughter and came all over her face gives them some sort of street credit and the other bros will look up to them.
Hard fucking pass.
I learned a long time ago that I don’t let a guy finish until he’s finished me off first. And if he doesn’t automatically go there, he isn’t given a second chance. It’s a huge red flag. I know I’m more than the holes I offer for their pleasure, as crass as that sounds.
Kit and I head to our allotted seats in the designated family section, seeing my sister and niece already there as we approach. Isla is speaking to a man I’ve never seen before. Granted, I don’t come to many games these days, but the family faces usually only change with player trades. Or if one of the players finally gets serious enough with a woman to invite her to sit with this lot. It’s not something most guys’ do lightly. Sometimes they’ll date a woman for months before they allow her into the circle of wives and girlfriends.
“Hey, Sadie,” I greet my niece.
“Hi, Auntie Willa,” she says, excitedly. I used to live with her and Isla since we’re close, but like with most things in my life right now, I don’t see her as often as I’d like. “You sit there.” She points to the seat directly behind her own and next to the stranger my sister is still talking to.
He’s broad but doesn’t seem bulky under his black peacoat and dark jeans. I surreptitiously give him a once-over as I settle into my seat. He’s got expensive black boots on, and upon closer inspection, I can tell his coat is also a high-end brand. The cost of his apparel isn’t what grabs my attention though; it’s his thick dark hair, and the ink painted over his skin. Markings show on the back of his hand, bleeding down to his fingers. It’s wrapped around a paper coffee cup so I can’t get a great look at the image, but the art is deeply shaded. It screams of something dark and ominous.
The man himself, dressed unlike any regular hockey fan, is intriguing. Especially with his deep voice that sounds as rich as the clothing he wears.
“I know very little about the game. I hope you don’t mind my questions while I learn,” he says to Isla.
“You’re in the right section for that. We’re all basically experts here. Ask away,” she answers.
“I can teach you; I know everything about hockey,” Sadie says. The man grins at her, probably not believing her. But she does know just about everything, even though she’s only six years old and is missing a front tooth.
“You sure do,” I agree with her.
“Willa, Kit, this is Damian March,” Isla introduces us, pointing her finger at each of us, as she says our names.
“Nice to meet you both,” he says in a voice that sounds like he finishes his nights with a glass of bourbon.
“Likewise,” Kit says.
“Always nice to meet a new hockey fan,” I tell him as he unabashedly ogles me. Excitement shines in his dark eyes, as if he’s been waiting for this moment. I blink away my astonishment before turning back to my sister. “How’s the head WaG?”
“Shut up,” my sister whispers with a nervous laugh. She’s been asked to take charge of the wives and girlfriends this season. The wife that did it previously, divorced her player and moved back to the East Coast. Isla hates it and can’t wait to pass it off. But the stubborn control freak in her won’t let her hand it away if it might make her look weak to others, like she can’t handle it. She can, of course, but planning baby showers and the like isn’t something she has much experience with.
“What’s a wag,” Damian asks.
“Wives and girlfriends,” I say.
“There is a head wife?”
“Yeah, it’s a whole thing,” I tell him.
“Subject change, please,” Isla demands, making my grin grow.
“Who do you belong to, Mr. March? And why do you look vaguely familiar?”
“He goes to UW, too,” Isla says. “Maybe you’ve seen each other.”
“I’m certain I wouldn’t have forgotten such a meeting,” he says, the silkiness of his words sending sensation to places that haven’t been excited in a long while. Though something tells me he isn’t being entirely truthful. Interesting.
“What do you study?”
“I’m in the sociology PhD program. Group behavior and cults, specifically.”
“Wow, impressive,” I say, turning to face him slightly. Our knees bump, but he doesn’t pull away.
“It was a hobby that grew into something more,” he says, shrugging. “What’s your path?”
