Page 26 of Lovefool

There’s a devilish twinkle in her eyes that I don’t like. “Holy shit. The Mustangs really are gods around here.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“This will be perfect for my first article. Who knew the societal food chain was so prominent in college?”

“I don’t use my reputation to⁠—”

Lake waves me off. “Oh, I know, but this is celebrity worship at its finest. Everyone here is struggling for a psychological connection, and parasocial relationships are bound to happen. Pair that with the low self-esteems of college students and their habit-forming tendencies and bam, pathological obsession takes over. I could write an entire thesis paper on this.”

“You sure it wasn’t because I threatened to break his jaw?” I snort.

She pats me enthusiastically on my chest. “You need to give yourself more credit, Sutton. You’re fucking awesome. It’s about time the world knows it.”

I should’ve kissed her. I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I kiss her?

For someone who plays on a renowned hockey team, this has to be the greatest challenge I’ve faced so far.

11

UNDERCOVER AND THOROUGHLY INTOXICATED

LAKE

“Please come with me tonight,” I beg, latching on to Ellaria’s arm and giving her my best puppy dog pout.

She feigns offense. “Right, so I can follow you around as you infiltrate the hockey team and spy on them?”

“It’s a party, El. There’ll be tons of stuff to do there. Drink, make out, do drugs. You know, the essentials.”

My best friend surrenders and plops down on my bed with an exaggerated sigh, rubbing my boring, white comforter between her fingers.

My bedroom is…dated. Student salary and all that. A collection of pictures of my family and high school friends, a pop of grunge black, and a small collection of old-timey vinyls that I have yet to enjoy because record players are freakishly expensive. My favorite concert posters made it up on the wall—curling at the edges from old age—but reminiscent of a time in my teen years when I could bend down without cracking my knees. Everything is a time capsule of sorts—fossilized in dust, lonely amidst the unintentional minimalism.

“Why do you even have to work at a party? I thought the article you’re writing is supposed to be about their life on the ice, not off it.”

“Tammy doesn’t just want cold, hard facts. She wants the inside scoop on their interpersonal relationships. She wants to know what makes them tick. Kind of overkill if you ask me, but I’m slightly terrified of her. The student population isn’t going to tune in because they’re avid hockey fans; they’re going to tune in because they want to secretly dismantle the top of the food chain.”

Ellaria sucks her teeth. “Jesus. Hope they’re paying you extra for that.”

Am I really wasting my Saturday night by going to a frat party that I’ve outgrown? Yes, but not without ulterior motives. I know for a fact that Sutton is going to be there, and I think he would’ve asked me to be his plus-one if he didn’t look so constipated at the protest.

Did I want him to kiss me amidst the battle cries of my fellow warriors? Fuck yeah. But…maybe we’re just not there yet. The last thing I want to do is rush into things and scare him off.

A frown folds in Ellaria’s peachy-glossed lips, and the pulse in my neck is rioting like an insistent drumline.

So, having exhausted all my options, I plead with her one last time not to abandon me in a never-ending maze of testosterone and bad decisions. “Pleeeaaaseee. I’ll buy you Taco Bell on the way home. I need the support, and Sutton is going to be there.”

Ellaria crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a shit-eating grin. “Oh, Sutton is going to be there, huh? Is this why you’re low-key losing your mind?”

I huff, though the nerves inside me say otherwise. I never used to experience anxiety over a man. I’d ride those blissfully unaware waves all the way into the sunset like my bloodstream was permanently half THC.

What I feel for Sutton scares me more than jail or my mother’s disappointment or not living up to anything in life and eventually becoming a college dropout. The uncertainty of our friendship reminds me that I can lose him as easily as I met him.

“Pish, I am not ‘losing my mind.’ I’m doing great, actually. Sutton and I—we’re just friends.”

God, I fucking hate that word.

A bitter taste congeals on my tongue, triggering a feedback loop of melodrama that would send me to a psychiatric hospital if we were still in the 1900s. He doesn’t look at me like I’m merely a friend, but he hasn’t made a move either. I haven’t even ingested any alcohol yet and my stomach is starting to hurt.