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FOUR
OCTAVIA
Morgan and I are thefirst to arrive at Lucy's Diner after the game, and I can whole-heartedly go for a strawberry milkshake. Maybe even with a little something extra in it to get me through this dinner with Mr. Hotshot-Fighter.
I take in the immediate aroma of greasy burgers and coffee, and my stomach growls as soon as we walk in. This place has been my favourite diner since my dad started bringing me here every Friday night after my adoption. We would sit in a booth for hours, talking about everything from what homework I had to what the new drama was in school. I miss those days.
Everything was so much easier back then.
We find a teal blue booth resting in front of a big window and slide in while we wait for everyone else.
"Matthew texted. He just pulled up outside with Adam and Tyler!" Morgan shouts excitedly about ten minutes later while anxiously staring at the door. That guy always seems to turn her into a giddy schoolgirl.
Adam and Tyler are probably the only other two players on the Saints that I would consider my friends. While Adam and I are close, I can't say the same about Tyler and me. Not due to lack of trying on my part either. He's just a much tougher nut to crack than Adam.
Just as I open my mouth to reply, I hear the bell ring on the diner door and see the three guys walk in.
Confidence oozes off of them as they make their way to our table. All three are sporting slightly damp hair and fancy suits, courtesy of well-needed showers and their game-day uniforms. Adam stands the tallest, at his six-foot-two height, followed by Tyler, and then Matt.
When they reach our table, I look up at them slyly. "Bout time you boys showed up. You should know it's never nice to keep people waiting."
Adam sits in the booth beside me with a smirk on his face and slings his left arm around me, giving me a quick side hug.
"Funny, we didn't know that we were keeping anyone waiting. Did you, Tyler?"
"Can't say that I did," Tyler mutters and sits in the seat beside Adam.
Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention to Matthew as he slides in beside Morgan and kisses her head while sliding his arm around the back of the booth. "Hey, babe."
She grins, locking her crystal blue eyes with his darker ones. "Hey, Matt. You boys were awesome tonight! Where's your fighter?" she asks, kicking my foot under the table.
I glare at her as Tyler turns around and jerks his head towards the door. "Walking in as we speak."
The familiar striking green eyes catch my attention first, the depth of them sending me reeling backwards. A seemingly unknown, unfamiliar emotion pours out from behind the glassy gaze.
Realizing that I'm openly staring into Oakley's newly vacant eyes, I force a cough and tear my own away before letting them follow the sharp lines of his jaw.
I'm shamefully mesmerized by the beauty of the powerful, chiselled features. From his slightly crooked nose to his plump lips, he looks like God himself carved him. Cliche, I know.
The endless sleeves of black tattoos covering his forearms catch my attention next as he reaches up to the baseball cap covering his ashy brown hair. He removes it only to run his fingers through the messy locks before slapping it back on, his biceps flexing. I was right earlier when I guessed he was ripped. As I watch him walk towards the table, my mouth dries, a sudden need to see what he's hiding beneath his white dress shirt completely overwhelming me—
I force myself to stop gawking at him and look around the room. I try to focus on anything but the guy who just so happens to be staring at me with a playful smirk resting on his lips—my cheeks flame when he reaches our table.
"You can have the window seat, Oakley. I prefer the middle seat anyway," I hear Morgan insist as she shoves Matthew out of the booth before getting out after him, motioning for Oakley to slide into her previous seat. I plaster a tight smile on my face and mentally plan her slow and all so painful death while she slips back in the booth.
"Do you always check out guys like that, or was that just for me?" I hear a raspy voice whisper. My head snaps up in the direction of the voice only to see Oakley leaning across the table.
"I would say just you, but that would be a lie," I declare with as much fake confidence as I can muster up and push myself further into the seat.
He chuckles, "You gonna tell me your name, or do I have to ask your friend?"
"Octavia!" Morgan practically shrieks. "Her name is Octavia."
"It's Ava, actually," I correct her, trying to look as bored from the conversation as possible. "I already know yours. You seem to have a special way of introducing yourself to everyone, Oakley."
"It needed to be done. I just happened to be the guy to take care of it." He simply shrugs—as if beating the crap out of a total stranger is normal. Although, for him, I guess it is. "That team is a bunch of little bitches, anyways."
He drops the topic and turns his attention to the menu in front of him. Is it just me, or does the famous hockey star not like talking about himself?
