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“Fuck! I didn’t know it was a lucky shirt.” My heart races in a panic. “Who has a lucky shirt?”
Seriously, who the fuck has a lucky shirt?
“Oh my god, you really took his shirt?” Layla throws her head back, laughing at me all over again.
This is not funny.
Not even the slightest bit funny.
“Shush! I just tookAshirt. Mine was still soaked with beer. Why is it lucky?” I continue packing my stuff up, ignoring the shirt in my bag.
My entire bag smells like Nick.
Fuck,it smells so good.
I look at my phone and there are a slew of texts from a number I didn’t save.
#:Hey did you take my shirt?
#:Seriously, I know you took my shirt.
#:Real funny, but I’m going to need my shirt back.
#:Lenny, please can I get my shirt back? I’ll give you a different one.
Oh no.
I took his lucky shirt.
Hockey players have weird superstitions about everything.
I had no idea it was a special shirt. It was just a shirt at the end of his bed. In his immaculate room, that he wasn’t wearing that day, that was probably kept in that spot for a reason.
Fuck!
I just played dumb with him. He probably thinks I’m such a bitch.
“Here.” I pull it out and hand it to Layla. “I didn’t know it was a lucky shirt or whatever. Just give it to Greg or something.”
“Whoa. I don’t want that kind of responsibility!” She won’t even touch it, holding her hands up and backing up against the lockers.
“I can’t give it back to him now! I just pretended not to have it. Please.” I beg, but she won’t take it and the guys left the gym a while ago.
I have to bring it back to him.
I walk past sorority row two blocks and down to their house.
The hockey house. The big Colonial home with the crossed hockey sticks emblem above the door’s archway. It looks so normal in the daylight. Not at all like the bumping party house it was last night.
I knock and one of the guys answers almost immediately.
Holt Bramby, center on the first line. He leans against the door with his arms crossed over his chest and squints, looking me up and down. It’s like he’s sizing me up, trying to figure me out.
“Hi,” I say feeling self-conscious and unsure of what to do.
Holt is intimidating.
They say he’s quiet. Just glares at people like he’s doing to me now.
