Page 95 of The Stud

“Why isn’t she on yours?” Arden promptly pokes back. “She’s like a five-foot nothing snipe with more moves than Jágr.”

“The ageless wonder.”

“That’sexactlywhat she is.”

“I meant him.”

“Only because you don’t understand thepowerof her.” A small adjustment to her aid is given. “I love Latin music and reggae and hip-hop and reallyanymusic with rhythm I canfeelthe vibrations of, aye, but there’s just something so mesmerizing about her. She has this unique and distinct voice. A banging bod. Stats that aren’t fucking talked about enough…”

“Should I be jealous?” Another teasing look is delivered. “Concerned you’d be sleeping in her number if she had one?”

“Absolutely.” The dropping of my jaw gets her giggling, dissipating any lingering dejection I didn’t realize was still following me. “However, she doesn’t have one – yet – so you’re fine for now.”

“Ever been to her concert?”

Arden quickly shakes her head as Bear rests his in the space between us. “Hockey season and concert season don’t exactly overlap forgivingly.”

“True.” Switching lanes to get around a minivan proceeds a follow up question. “Would you be comfortable going?” I give a casual gesture to her ear. “Couldyou go?”

“I’d wear plugs like I do for the game.” An innocent shrug bounces her fuzzy gray zip up covered shoulders. “It’s like a totally growing norm now.”

“Have you ever been toanyconcert?”

“Nopeskie.”

I warmly grunt at the new information.

How many different things has she missed out due to her condition?

Do peopleassumewhat she can and can’t do?

Wants and doesn’t want?

Perhaps it’s something else?

Most people tend to go to concerts with their mates, yet outside the boys it doesn’t appear as if she has one, although she is rather friendly with her neighbor.

Oh, and Bear’s college-age sitter for roadskie stretches.

Then again…theirrelationship most certainly has more of coach-player cordial vibe than anything else.

“Your turn,Onrait,” my Slayer pushes while reaching into the rubberduckless cup holder for the gum container. “I’ve completed your interview, you complete mine.” She pops the top similar to the way my mate did. “What’s got you moping like a duster instead of the stud you are?”

The nonchalant action has me quietly confessing, “I don’t wanna end up like Becks.”

“Okay?” Cluelessness accompanies the gum finding its way into her mouth. “Then don’t get addicted to oxy.”

“It’s not like hepurposelygot addicted to it, Arden.”

“And it’s not like he couldn’t purposely stay clean when he got out of the program, Tanner.”

“We both know that program is a bloody joke.”

“Weallknow that program is a fucking joke,” she echoes, pausing to toss a piece into my own open mouth, “but hechoseto go back to his old fucking ways afterward instead of getting his head back into the game. Hechoseto chase bunnies instead of pucks. Hechoseto make headlines instead of headway. Hechoseto get wasted before tryouts instead of putting the work in. Hechoseto look for answers at the bottom of a bottle or bag of cokeinstead of in the fucking mirror because it’s so mucheasierto look out than it is in.”

My shoulders sag in agreement, yet my words maintain the fight, “I don’t want to end up with nothing when I have to hang ‘em up.”

“Then I suggest investing in furthering your employment options rather than your ecstasy collection.”

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