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I remove my pink gloss from the inner pocket of my bag and apply a thin layer to my lips, smacking them together loudly as I look over at Bex. She’s a real tomboy. Anything to do with makeup or hair scares the crap out of her. It’s as if she’s allergic to anything girly.
I turn to face Bex, greeted by a strange stare as she takes in my features. “How do I look?”
“Fine.” Her tone is cold, devoid of any emotion. “Stop worrying about your appearance. A guy should like you even on your worse day. Otherwise, he’s not worth your time.”
“I wish I could be more like you, Bex. You never care what anyone thinks of you.”
She shrugs. “It’s simple. People will either like you the way you are or hate you for it. You know what my dad says about opinions and assholes.”
Realizing she’s right, I laugh and open the door, where hot hockey players are practicing on the other side. “I’ll try to find my inner Bex.”
Be like Bex, I chant a few times under my breath, mimicking the Be Like Mike slogan from Michael Jordan’s Gatorade commercial from the ‘90s.
“You’re the only girl I know who would show her face around a bunch of hot guys with a bloody lip and no makeup.”
Bex rolls her eyes. “I haven’t worn makeup since my dad made me wipe it off my face in my sophomore year of high school. Anyway, who cares if my lip is busted open? I wear it like a badge of honor. I wasn’t about to let Stacey Weaver get to the net.”
“Instead, you guarded her so hard, she ended up dropping bows on you like you’re in the UFC.”
Laughter shakes through her. “Drop bows? You sound like a lunatic.”
“What? Haven’t you ever seen a spinning back elbow? It’s pretty sweet. That’s basically what Stacy did to your face.”
My older brother, Shaun, loves the UFC. So do I. We learned everything from my dad, who’s a retired Colonel in the United States Marine Corps. Every few years, we moved to a new duty station until I was in high school. Over the years, my dad trained Shaun and me in mixed martial arts as well as other defensive techniques.
“I hustled my ass off to become a starter this year,” Bex says. “I wasn’t about to punk out, allow her to make the easy layup, and show Coach Vaughn I wasn’t starting material.”
Bex is always so serious. God forbid anyone on our team who gets a leg up on her. For someone who has no plans to attempt a pro career, she takes winning way too seriously. We both love the game, but in the end, it’s just a game. It’s meant to be fun.
“It was just a scrimmage,” I tell her. “You can ease up a little bit. What if Preston tries to kiss you on Saturday, and he tastes blood? That’s not sexy.”
She shrugs, unaffected. “He’s a hockey player. I’m sure he’s used to the taste of blood in his mouth. And it’s not like I’m going to kiss him.”
We stop in front of the outer edge of the ice, and our conversation comes to a halt. Once I get a load of the men on the ice before me, my eyes are as wide as my mouth that has fallen open. Bex looks equally taken back by the players. They’re so graceful on skates they make basketball players look like a bunch of idiots falling over their feet.
Her eyes travel to Preston, who skates past us. He didn’t seem to notice either of us, and that’s probably for the best considering the look on Bex’s face right now. She’s watched the team play dozens of times, but that was before she stumbled into a very shirtless, very wet Preston Parker in the locker room. Now, her perspective on the game and Preston is completely different. I can see it written all over her face.
From what I can tell, they’re having a scrimmage. One team wears navy jerseys, the other red. A quick squabble ensues where two players fight for possession of the puck. I have no idea which player is which, though I do know the goalie—Drake Donovan. Well, I probably know every detail of his dick better than him. Most of the girls on campus have seen it at least once. And now, I can’t stop thinking about him or his junk as I watch him defend the net.
He moves so fast dressed in all that padding and gear. A wall of a man, Drake hulks over every player on the ice. He must be close to seven feet tall, muscles bulging from every place imaginable. Even from under his uniform, I can see how well he fills out every speck of fabric attached to his toned body.
