Page 144 of Love to Hate You

Most guys, no matter what their age, would give their left nut to be in my skates.

To have their pick of any girl. Or, more often than not, girls.

And here I am...limp dick in hand.

Actually, limp dick in her hand.

Sex has become something I do to take the edge off when I’m feeling stressed. It’s my version of a relaxation technique. For fuck’s sake, I’m twenty-three years old. I’m in the sexual prime of my life. I should be ecstatic when any girl wants to spread her legs for me. What I shouldn’t be is bored. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be mentally running through the drills we’ll be doing when I lead a captain’s practice.

I pry her fingers from my junk and shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve got some shit to take care of.”

And that shit would be school. I have forty pages of reading that needs to be finished up by tomorrow morning.

Blondie pouts and bats her mascara-laden lashes.

“Maybe later?” she coos in a baby voice.

Fuck. That is such a turnoff.

Why do chicks do that?

No, seriously. It’s a legitimate question. Why do they do that? It’s like nails on a chalkboard. I’m tempted to answer back in a ridiculous, lispy-sounding voice.

But I don’t.

I'm not that big of an asshole.

Plus, she might be into it.

Then I’d be screwed. I envision us cooing at each other in baby voices for the rest of the night and almost shudder.

“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. Although I’m not going to lie, that toddler voice has killed any chance for a later hookup. But I’m smart enough not to tell her that. Chances are high that she’ll end up finding another hockey player to latch on to and forget all about me. Because let’s face it, that’s what she’s here for.

A little dick from a guy who skates with a stick.

Just to be sure, I run my eyes over the length of her again.

Toddler voice aside, she’s got it going on.

And yet, that banging body is doing absolutely nothing for me.

Which is troublesome. I almost want to take her upstairs just to prove to myself that everything is in proper working order. But I won’t.

As I hit the first step, Cooper breaks away from his girl. “WTF, McKinnon? Where you going?” He waves a hand around the room. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of entertaining?”

“I’ll leave you to take care of our guests,” I say, trudging up the staircase.

“Well, if you insist,” he slurs happily.

My bedroom is at the end of the hall, away from the noise of the first floor. As a general rule, no one is allowed on the second floor except for the guys who live here. I pull out my key and unlock the door before stepping inside.

My duffel gets tossed in the corner before I open my Managerial Finance book. I thought I’d have a chance to plow through some of the reading over the weekend, but my dad and I were on the go the entire time. Meeting people from the Milwaukee organization, hitting a team party, checking out a few condos near the lakefront. Just getting the general lay of the land. On the plane ride home, I had every intention of being productive, but ended up sacking out once we hit cruising altitude.

Three hours later, there’s a knock on the door. Normally an interruption would piss me off, but after slogging through thirty pages, my eyes have glazed over, and I’m fighting to stay awake. This material is mind-numbingly boring, and that’s not helping matters.

“It's open,” I call out, expecting Cooper to try cajoling me back downstairs.

When that guy’s shitfaced, he wants everyone else to be just as hammered as he is. I’ve never seen anyone put away alcohol the way he does. It’s almost as impressive as it is scary. And yet, he’s somehow able to wake up for morning practice bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like he wasn’t just wasted six hours ago. Someone from the biology department really needs to do a case study on him, ’cause that shit just ain’t normal.

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