Page 142 of Love to Hate You

Did you happen to check out the rock on her left hand? My advice is to not stare at it directly. It’s like the sun, it’ll burn the damn retinas right out of your head. You better believe I put a ring on her finger. Daisy Thompson is the best thing that ever happened to me. She’s the girl I didn’t think I could have, but never stopped wanting.

Now she’s mine.

And just like I told her three years ago, I’m hers.

No matter what happens in our lives, that will never change.

~The End~

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Hate to Love You

Chapter One

Brody

“Dude, I thought you’d be back earlier.” Cooper, one of my roommates, grins as I walk through the front door. There’s a half-naked chick straddling his lap. “We had to get this party started without you.” He shrugs as if he’s just taken one for the team. “It couldn't be helped.”

I snort as my gaze travels around the living room of the house we rent a few blocks off campus. Even though there are only four of us on the lease, our place seems to be a crash pad for half the team. By the looks of the beer bottles strewn around, they’ve been at it for a while. I’m seriously thinking about charging some of these assholes rent.

Although, I guess if I were stuck in a shoebox of a dorm, I’d be desperate for a way out, too. I played juniors straight out of high school for two years before coming in as a freshman at twenty. I skipped dorm living and went straight to renting a place nearby. There was no way I was bunking down with a bunch of random eighteen-year-olds who’d never lived away from home. Not to mention, having an RA up my ass telling me what I could and couldn’t do.

That sounds about as much fun as ripping duct tape off my balls.

Which is, I might add, the complete opposite of fun. Hazing sucks. And for future reference, you don’t rip duct tape off your balls, you carefully cut it away with a steady hand while mother-fucking the entire team.

My other two roommates, Luke Anderson and Sawyer Stevens, are hunched at the edge of the couch, battling it out in an intense game of NHL. Their thumbs are jerking the controllers in lightning-quick movements, and their eyeballs are fastened to the seventy-inch HD screen hanging across the room.

I can only shake my head. Every time they play, it’s like a freaking National Championship is at stake.

I arch a brow as the girl on Cooper’s lap reaches around and unhooks her bra, dropping it to the floor. Apparently, she doesn’t mind if there’s an audience. Cooper’s lazy grin stretches as his fingers zero in on her nips.

I’d love to say this scene isn’t typical for a Sunday night, but I’d be lying through my teeth. Usually, it’s much worse.

Deking out Luke with some impressive video game puck handling skills, Sawyer says, “Grab a beer, bro. You can take over for Luke after I make him cry again like a little bitch.”

“Fuck you,” Luke grumbles.

I glance at the score. Luke is getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter, and he knows it.

“Sure.” Sawyer smirks. “Maybe later. But I should warn you, you’re not really my type. I like a dude who’s packing a little more meat than you.”

My lips twitch as I drop my duffle to the floor.

“Hey, you see that bullshit text from Coach?” Cooper asks from between the girl's tits.

I groan, hoping I didn't miss anything important while I was out of town for the weekend. I’m already under contract with the Milwaukee Mavericks. My dad and I flew there to meet with the coaching staff. I also got to hang with a few of the defensive players. Saturday night was freaking crazy. Next season is going to rock.

“Nah, didn't see it,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“Practice times have changed,” Cooper continues, all the while playing with the girl’s body. “We’re now at six o’clock in the morning and seven in the evening.”

Fuck me. He’s starting two-a-days already?

“You think he’s just screwing around with us?” I wouldn't put it past Coach Lang. I don’t think he has anything better to do than lie awake at night, dreaming up new ways to torture us. The guy is a real hard-ass.

Then again, that’s why we’re here.

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