Page 146 of Love to Hate You

Whitmore is a private university where hockey reigns supreme. Not even football can compete with hockey at this school. Every year, there are a handful of players that end up drafted to the NHL. That alone makes Whitmore a premier school for rising hockey talent in the country and Canada.

I’m sure the university rakes in a ton of revenue from ticket sales and merchandising. Two years ago, they built a brand-new, state-of-the-art arena on campus. So, it goes without saying that the hockey players are treated like royalty around here.

It’s annoying, but you get used to it…after a while.

Or, like me, you simply ignore it.

Personally, I don’t understand all the fandemonium. It’s just a game. Sure, hockey is a fun spectator sport. The pace, the action, the adrenalin. It’s easy to get swept away by the frenzy. I’ll admit to enjoying my fair share of games during the three years I’ve attended Whitmore, but that doesn’t mean I understand the culture of hero worship that surrounds it. Nor am I one of these idiot girls who wants to sleep with as many of the guys on the team as I can.

Ummm…No, thank you. I enjoy being STD-free.

When it comes right down to it, these guys are just a bunch of over-muscly jocks who have mastered the art (snort) of slapping a black rubber disc at a net and getting into fistfights on and off the ice at the least provocation.

Let’s keep it in perspective, people. They’re not exactly curing cancer or solving world hunger. And thusly, shouldn’t be treated as such.

There are about forty hockey players who attend Whitmore. And Brody McKinnon is probably the most talented—and talked about—player on the team. Even in high school, he was on the NHL radar. He made a name for himself playing juniors before gracing us with his esteemed presence. As much as it pains me to admit it, he’s exploded at the college level. The chatter around campus is that he’s already under contract for an NHL team.

Is that true?

Who knows.

Better yet, who cares?

I try not to pay attention to the constant gossip that churns where he’s concerned, but it’s impossible to ignore. Being at Whitmore is like being held prisoner in a hockey-obsessed bubble. You’re inundated with the information whether you want it or not.

Even though it’s perfectly clear that an extraneous conversation is taking place behind me, Dr. Miller ignores it and continues with her lecture on capital budgeting techniques. Far be it for her to reprimand one of our star athletes. Normally, I would tune Brody and his groupies out, but it’s not working today.

I woke up late and didn’t have time to stop at Java House for my usual extra-grande cup of caffeine.

So, I’m cranky and out of sorts.

Which is never a good combination. Especially for Brody.

When I can’t stand another moment of their incessant chatter, I spin around on my chair and give Brody a perfectly honed death glare. It’s not difficult. I can’t look at him without my face contorting into that expression. This guy has rubbed me wrong from day one. And it’s only gone downhill from there.

Our eyes collide, and Brody’s brows skyrocket into his hairline before a knowing smirk moves across his face at a glacier pace.

He mouths one word.

Jealous?

I huff.

As if…

My guess is that he’s taken one too many slapshots to the head. It’s sad, really…

His eyes sparkle with mischief as he deliberately rims the edges of his lips with his tongue.

In your dreams, I mouth back and whip around again to face the front. My teeth are clenched so tightly, they’re in imminent danger of shattering.

This is exactly what Brody McKinnon does to me.

Every.

Damn.

Time.

---