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“That’s how I feel on the ice,” he says with a forlorn smile.
My high instantly vanishes and I touch his arm with hesitant fingers. “You’ll get this mess straightened out.”
Bennett looks away from me, and I know it’s his silent way of saying he’s not so sure.
I settle back into my seat, realizing he doesn’t want to talk.
I look out the window at the passing scenery as he speeds down the road. We’ll be back to campus in no time if he keeps this speed up, and while I should be happy to get back to studying, I kind of don’t want this mini-trip to be over.
I’m beginning to realize that I like Bennett way more than I should and it’s only going to hurt me in the end.
But it’s too late now.
It’s the first hockey game of the season and I’m not with my team like I should be. Pissed doesn’t even cover what I feel. I glare at the TV screen mounted to the wall in the bar. Coach Matthews orders the guys around on the ice, and I might hate the fucker, but I’d give anything to be out there with my team. They probably don’t want me there, though. I haven’t heard from any of the guys while I’ve been gone, not while I was hurt and not now. There’s no telling the lies Matthews has spewed.
Matthews … the fucker is good.
But me? I’m better.
He thinks he has the upper-hand, but he’s wrong. He’s always underestimated me, and I’m going to use that to my advantage.
“You look like you could use another drink.” The bartender slides another beer across the shiny wood top to me.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She winks and sways her hips suggestively before heading over to fill an order. She has glossy dark hair, a decent rack, and nice ass. A few months ago, I would’ve put on the charm and been fucking her before the night was over. But I’m a “new man” the “reformed bad boy” that “loves” his “girlfriend”. I have to keep up pretenses as far as the media’s concerned, and that means no cheating on my perfect girlfriend. Except, she’s not my real girlfriend, which means no sex for me.
It really fucking sucks to be me right now.
I groan and scrub my hands down my face.
My life is one big clusterfuck, and I need to figure out how to fix it.
My drug test for Coach Harrison came back negative—like I knew it would—so he’s continued to let me work with his team, but I’m restless. I want to be back with my team playing games. Practice isn’t enough. I need the thrill and high of playing in an arena full of screaming fans. But Coach Matthews is dragging out this drug thing and he’s probably using it to buy more time to find some other reason to keep me off the team.
I’ve been laying low and doing my best to be the NHL’s new golden boy—unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate the bad boy stigma being so hard to shake.
Grace and I need to up the ante. We’ve been too tame.
I just hope she’s ready to play the game.
I drag Grace, Elle, Ryland, Makenna, and Celine to the next home game for the Plymouth Hunters. I’d only intended to bring Grace, but Elle overheard and fangirl shrieked while begging me to get tickets for her and Ryland. I don’t even know how Makenna and Celine got into it—two girls that live across the hall from Grace and Elle
—but somehow it’s now the six of us. So much for my “date” with Grace.
Grace took some convincing to get here. She didn’t want to go, and I had to remind her that she was my fake girlfriend and we needed to put on a show.
She just has no idea what kind of show I have in mind.
I take her hand as we descend the steps into the arena. It’s slow going as fans of the team stop me to sign stuff. I don’t mind, though. I smile and sign whatever the hell they want me too—except for a very large pair of boobs that’s shoved in my face. Men that are happily in love with their girlfriend don’t sign another girl’s boobs.
We finally make it to our seats and Grace and I wind up in the middle.
“It’s louder than I expected,” she says, looking around, unsure.
She’s adorable when she’s nervous. “People love hockey. There’s more to life than shopping, Princess.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I know that.” She pauses. “Speaking of shopping, you still need to let me get you some new clothes.” She looks at my jeans and sweatshirt in distaste. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my style—or lack of one—but I do know dressing nicer would go a long way in reforming my image.
