I can’t help but laugh. He reminds me of me at his age. I turn to see Hayes skating toward me, shaking his head. He launches himself at me for our post-game hug. “Den?”
“Damn straight. I need a burger after that game.”
“Kid kept chirping at ya, eh?”
I nod. “Little shit flipped me off after I gave him my stick, too.”
He laughs. “I saw. It’ll be up on an online auction before dawn.”
He grabs me in a side hug, patting my shoulder pads as we skate off the ice. It’s another solid win in the bag, but it somehow feels hollow. It’s not that the Kings didn’t test us as a team—they did. I have the sweat dripping from my ball sack to prove it.
I just… I dunno what it is. I scan the dispersing crowd for a flash of brightly colored hair, but I come up empty. My stomach sinks a little, and I don’t quite understand it.
When we get to The Den, I order a burger and an alcohol-free beer ’cause I know they’ll serve me liquor, and if I let myself drink, I’ll end up sliding into a dark space tonight. It’s an odd moment of clarity, and right now I’m in control of myself, but I could easily not be. Not to mention, if they served me liquor, they’d lose their license.
The Den is above reproach—it was never one of my haunts when I was wasted. They have an extensive alcohol-free range too, which makes it easier for the younger players on the team to hang out.
I continue my search for Eloise like somehow my desire to see her will make her appear. I haven’t seen the pink haired pixie since before last weekend’s double header against Duluth—we split those games, losing at home and winning at the Dragon’s barn—but I thought I had her within reach.
I was sure she’d want to come to the hockey party. Almost every time I see her, she’s by herself. Who wouldn’t want to go to a party full of cool people and make some friends? I thought I was being nice by asking her to go.
Guess not.
From the look on her face, I asked her to excise a lobe of her liver and hand it over so I could gnaw on it right in front of her.
I fucked up. I dunno how, or what I did, but she wasn’t thrilled. Or so her glare said, anyway.
I can’t help it. My brain goes weird when I see her. She makes me nervous. I’m not used to nervous.
Suave, charming, charismatic… that’s usually where I hang out.
It’s her intelligence. I Googled her. I know, I know, pathetic, needy, and yes, fine, somewhat obsessive and stalkerish, but I was curious, and she has a Google presence.
I wasn’t wrong—the girl is smart. Very smart. Too fucking smart for the likes of me, and yet like a moth to a flame I’m drawn to her.
I want her.
From the flush of her cheeks, and the hitch in her breath when I stood next to her, I thought she wanted me too. But I’m starting to think that was an instinctive reaction to the fact I had my hand on her face.
When I say she’s smart, I’m not exaggerating. She wasn’tjusta nerd in high school, she was captain of the nerds. She was president of her high school academic decathlon team, a science Olympiad, whatever the hell that is, captain of the chess club, model UN, Spanish club… the list seems endless.
There are any number of photos of her smiling with various academic awards. She looks different in the photos. Her hair isn’t pink, for one. Instead, her hair is waist length, coffee colored, and wavy. In one, it’s short and bright blue.
A sparkle’s in her eyes in the pictures that she doesn’t seem to have anymore, and I bet that’s connected to the news article I found about the accident that scarred her face.
The article said she lost her mom, but from the picture, her mom looked young enough to be her big sister. That moment took the spark from Eloise’s eyes. The moment that changed her entire life.
She probably dyes her hair pink to distract people from the grooves on her cheek, too. Classic misdirect. I’ve done it, too. Hell, I’ve lived it.
Her injuries made it onto the internet too. A plastic surgeon published a paper on the work he did to reconstruct her face. In truth, I can’t figure out how he did it. Her face was so damaged, and he did such a really good job of rebuilding it, like an artist. She’s still every bit as gorgeous as she was before.
I could easily use Dad’s connections at the local precinct to pull details on the accident, but that’s most definitely a step too far. Even my obsessive personality knows that. It’s tempting though.
Except, I wantherto tell me. I want her to open up to me and share those details with me herself. But I can’t crack her shell. Hell, I can’t even get her to tell me what the weather’s like outside. Huh. I doubt I could get her to pee on me if I was on fire.
I can’t say golden showers are my kink, but if it made her talk to me, I’d let her pee on me.
It could be anxiety, my wealth, or probably more likely, my arrogance, but something about me makes her clam up whenever I get anywhere near her. It took all I had not to grab her pretty pink head and kiss her where she stood last week. And this week, I’ve spent my time searching her out to leave her little gifts that make her smile. But tonight, she’s not around. I can’t see her, I can’t feel her, and I’m disappointed.
