Page 26 of Enemy Games

“No problem. Let me know if you get stuck again. Benjamin and I are both comms majors, so between the two of us we should be able to help.”

Huh, asking Benjamin for help sounded a lot better than going back to Hunter.

“Thanks.”

He offered a small wave before heading out.

Hopefully, after this weekend, I won't have to spend any more time around him.

Chapter 8

Hunter

Normally, cleaning up the park was easy.

The city representatives must have said that at least twenty times over the last hour, and it hadn’t changed anything.

This was not easy. This was strenuous manual labor.

We weren’t volunteers. We were trapped.

“You’re doing great, Hunter!” Pam called, and I forced a smile despite wanting to throw this shovel at her.

Yeah, normally, this was a simple matter of picking up trash, wiping down the playground equipment, adding new sand for the kids to throw, refilling the dog poop bags in the dispensers, and maybe even cleaning the restrooms.

But not today.

Today was not normal.

It snowed last night.

A.

Lot.

So, all those cute little tasks were thrown to the wind, and all fifteen volunteers that were dumb enough to show up were given snow shovels and told to get to work. I stood up and stretched my back. I was ninety percent sure I was going to end up with a pulled muscle or too sore to play this week. All because of a stupid service project.

“Hanging in there, old man?” Jackson taunted from the path parallel to mine. Back when we’d been young and strong and full of hope, we raced to clear two paths. Now I was feeling the pain.

“Barely,” I growled and twisted back and forth to loosen up my back. “I’m going to need another ice bath when we get back.”

“If we get back,” he grumbled before pushing on.

At least the team photographer got here early, so his shots of us weren’t quite so bleak. There weren’t any cute photo ops with kids or dogs or families today. Nope, just eight West Penn’s hockey players shivering and holding shovels like we were in a jumbo, winter version of American Gothic.

There should have been a weather clause in this deal. It was ridiculous to expect a small group of volunteers to clear all the snow from the paths in the park, by hand.

“We have hot cocoa!” Gary, an overly joyful man, called from the large gazebo at the center of the park.

“Finally. I can’t feel my hands or face,” Jackson said loud enough for me to hear.

“This was not what we signed up for.” My attitude wasn’t what a leader should have, but I was past caring.

Once we were under the wooden roof and the single space heater could be felt, I relaxed and fell onto a bench.

The two freshmen from my team were on the opposite side of the room, talking to the girls. Presley’s scarf was wrapped around her neck and face, so all you could see were her wary eyes. Her teammates were sporting red noses, and one even had tears rolling down her cheeks.

Was she hurt?