Page 19 of Don't Puck Him

Twelve.

Twelve goddamn days since I intervened with little miss can’t stay out of trouble and I am fucked.

Not only am I recovering from intense practice on the ice, but my mind is elsewhere. Cash has been adamant about having a few drinks, and I’ve been blowing him off for days. But when I gave in, those few ultimately turned into more like a dozen. A pack in each and we light up a few cigarettes on the balcony, gazing over the campus like kings over a kingdom.

“So what’s with you, man?”

It’s been building for nearly two weeks. I’m honestly surprised it’s taken him this long.

I’m normally able to deflect and stay calm, but Cash really has me cornered. This fucking booze is getting to me clearly.

“What’s with me?” I say, huffing in a long, contemplative drag. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Cash has a beer in his other hand, and swills it back hard into his gullet. He isn’t really angry, but booze has a way of turning even the softest of sober people into venomous monsters.

Nevertheless, I know I can take him. There’s a reason my opponent’s pupils shrink when I’m coming at them in the boards.

“Wren, you fucking moron,” he says, biting his words but smiling. “I see you with her all the time, and some of the boys said they saw you joking around at the library.”

I shrug. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Ten.

Ten days ago I caved and started following her, watching her. I needed to see her more.

But Cash doesn’t need to know that.

I watch him as he tumbles with one of our teammates across the living room, acting like complete idiots.

But when they break apart, laughing, Cash looks up at me. “What’s your fucking problem?”

Then, like magic, my voice goes low and dark. I have Cash’s attention in a chokehold.

“Do you know how a lion hunts its prey?” I lift a cigarette to my mouth, a hobbit that is growing by the day.

Cash scoffs, then begins to cackle. “God, is there fucking hash in these…”

“I’m serious Cash.”

He stumbles toward me, laughing. He’s wasted, obviously.

“Tell me then, wise Richard Attenborough.”

Cash turns and places his arms on the balcony next me, blowing lazy smoke billows into the night air, when I stand up and place two pinpoints of pressure on the back of his neck. For a second he freezes, unsure how to respond to the intense touch.

“They stalk their food,” I breathe into his ear. “They don’t go for the kill instantaneously. That would be foolish. That shows their cards. They wait. Then when the moment is right…”

I form my left hand into a first, then come down lightly onto Cash’s gut. It isn’t nearly as hard as it could have been, and is mostly a playful blow.

“They strike,” I sneer.

Cash cackles again, feigning injury, then topples back onto the lawn chair. A few other guys are challenging each other, and I look between them all.

It’s clear he thinks I’m just rambling. But that’s not the case.

I’m telling him my plan, what I have been doing. If he had been paying attention at all, he would have realized that.

My moment is coming, when I will strike. And once I have my prey…

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