Page 27 of Play Dirty

My jaw went tight. I almost showed teeth.

“Maybe start buying your own?” Caleb shrugged.

“I did buy my own!”

He looked artificially perplexed.

“Did you put your name on it?”

I shook my head slowly, in disbelief.

“You can try putting your name on it,” suggested Asher. “Might not work, though.”

“Better to put Grayson’s name on it,” said Caleb. “His stuff gets left alone.”

“Not by Ares,” Asher pointed out. “He’ll eat anything.”

“Zack too,” laughed Caleb. “He’s like a garbage disposal. Especially after practice, but also when…”

I slammed the fridge door so hard one of the interior shelves broke free. Condiments cascaded loudly, as an avalanche of noise rumbled, from within.

“No need to break up the place, Stats-girl,” Caleb frowned. “The house is falling apart as it is.”

“Yeah?” I sneered back at him, ignoring the nickname. “Then stop eating my shit.”

I stormed off, stomping back through the living room on my way to the staircase. Unfortunately, this made it impossible to avoid Ares. I found him lounged horizontally across the couch, a pair of bright blue Gel-Paks taped securely to his knees.

“Problem?” he grunted, looking me up and down.

A thousand razor-sharp replies leapt to mind, each one more cutting than the last. None of them would phase him, however.

Staring back at him defiantly, I said nothing.

“You know,” he leaned back, folding his arms casually behind his head. The resulting flex — intentional or not — turned his bare biceps and triceps into beautiful, rock-hard boulders. “You could just keep your food in your room.”

“My room?”

He winked at me, and for a split second I noticed he was dashingly handsome.

“Shit, why not? It’s probably colder than the fridge.”

I wanted to laugh, because he was right. At the same time, I wanted to kill him. More than anything though, I wanted to run to my room, taking the stairs two at a time. I could pack up my things. Drag them down. Tell this place — and the job that went along with it — to shove itself up its own ass.

But that would be far too easy.

Too easy for them.

Instead I took the stairs calmly; not running, but not dragging my ass either. Upon reaching my room I slipped on another two layers of clothing, kicked the radiator for good measure, then plopped down with my tablet. Running the day’s numbers always made me feel better. It destressed me; mathematics in general.

Because yes, I was that kind of weirdo.

For the first hour and a half I huddled beneath my blankets, superimposing today’s practice statistics against previous compiled data. I took a short break, during which I devoured two innocent granola bars from the box on my dresser, then dove right back into a compilation of clips of the Steel City Blades — our next opponent.

My stomach still grumbled, though. And every time it turned over inside me, frustration mounted.

Fuck this.

I shut it all down, and returned to the living room. By now, half the team was there. The boys were spread out over couches and chairs, gear everywhere, watching a basketball game. My tired eyes followed the on-screen action immediately, grateful to be focusing on something other than hockey.