Lilly
It’s only our second day interviewing the guys on the hockey team, and it was far more interesting than I expected it to be. Some of the stuff they came up with had me laughing so hard that I had tears streaming down my face. And of course, one of the freshmen tried his luck at flirting with us during his interview—which surprisingly enough, Lakelyn didn’t reciprocate, stating he was far too young for her.
I’ve also been mindful about the questions I’ve been asking. I decided that Lakelyn asked too many stupid questions, so I took the reins and I’ve been asking the guys first if there’s any topics they’re not comfortable talking about. I know for myself, family is a rocky situation, and I didn’t want to put any of the guys in an awkward position where they’re forced to talk about a matter they don’t want to.
And I couldn’t even count the number of times I’ve had to scoldLakelyn. Every person that walked into the conference room, the first question out of her mouth was asking for their phone number. It’s getting draining. Plus, couldn’t she see that Matteo was gay? He even mentioned his boyfriend being his number one supporter…maybe that piece of information went over her head, like a lot of stuff.
Lifting my water bottle, I groan when I realize it’s empty. Double tapping my phone screen, I see we’ve got five minutes before our next interview, enough time for me to fill the water bottle up and be back here before Hunter arrives.
“I’m just gonna fill this up.” I tell Lakelyn, gesturing to my water bottle.
The only response I get is ahmmas she smacks her lips aggressively while chewing on her gum. Rolling my eyes, I stand up and head toward the door.
Stepping out of the conference room, I head toward the nearest water cooler at the end of the corridor. I’ve never been a huge fan of drinking just water, but I made it my mission this year to drink at least one and a half bottles a day…and so far, I’m failing.
What can I say, water tastes too bland.
As I walk down the corridor, my eyes dart around the pictures displayed on the wall of the previous teams throughout the years, and I’m not focused on looking ahead because suddenly I feel a jolt against me, knocking me off balance slightly.
I feel a hand come to rest around my waist keeping me from falling over, and I let out a little squeak as I clutch onto their arm.
“I’m sorry!” The apology is out of my mouth before I even glance up to see who I knocked in to.
My eyes slowly trail up and my heart sinks when I realize it’s Greyson, whose very large, and very veiny hand is still encircled around my waist. We’d gotten off on the wrong foot the other day, and I’ve been avoiding him since.
I didn’t have any right in the first place to criticize his playing, considering I knew fuck all about hockey, and I regret doing it now. But what’s done is done, and as he clearly stated“leave the coaching to Coach”which from now on, I’ll certainly be doing.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see a flicker of surprise before it’s masked, and then the warmth of his hand disappears from my waist. “It’s fine.” He says curtly, stepping back to give me some space.
Fumbling with my water bottle, I say. “I, uh. I didn’t see you there.”
“No harm done.”
There’s an awkward silence, and I know I have to say something to break the ice. “Look, about the other day…” my finger anxiously finds the cuticle of my nail as I begin picking at it. “I’m sorry if I came across rude.”
Greyson’s expression softened slightly, and he sighed. “I should be the one apologizing,” he confesses, raking a hand through his hair. “I was pissed at something that had nothing to do with you, and I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you, so for that, I’m sorry.”
He’s apologizing…to me?
Nobody had ever done that before. With my ex, whenever we got into fights it was always me apologizing, even when he was in the wrong. Not once did a sorry escape his stupid lips. So I wasn’t too sure how to react to Greyson’s apology.
Nervously chewing my lip, my eyes—without my consent—gravitate toward him, and admire him. His chestnut-colored hair is damp, a clear sign he’s just showered after their grueling practice. His eyes are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen in my life, and you could see the clear exhaustion behind them. His jaw line is sharper than a knife, and his lips…holy fuck. I’ve never in my life seen such a perfect pair of lips.
Why am I even looking at his lips?And why do guys always have perfect lips and eyelashes?
He tilts his head slightly as he looks back at me, and that’s when I realize I haven’t responded to him and have been instead staring at him like a weirdo. “Uh, it’s fine,” I wave off the apology, not really knowing how to respond. “We all have our off days.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” he agrees. “But I still shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“And I shouldn’t have even said anything,” I admit. “It’s not my place to tell you what you need to work on, as you said, that’s Coach Gillingham’s job.”
“Yeah, that was a dickish comment from me,” he winces, scratching the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry once again, Lilly. Honestly, I had no right to speak to you the way I did.”
I shrug. “I’m used to it.”
“To people talking to you like shit?” He asks, concern lacing his voice.
Once again, I nod.
