Page 16 of Confessions of a Former Puck Bunny

Funny thing about that, it didn’t make you a lot of female friends. Growing up, Mom always claimed girls were just jealous of me like women were jealous of her. Said it like it was our curse to bear.Poor, poor us and our devastating beauty and feminine wiles. Hah!

Honestly, I think jealousysometimesfactored into the mix, but—thanks to changing up my life and the way I used to live it—I also knew it was frustrating for girls who didn’t want to put themselves way out there, whether by boldly flirting or boldly dressing, or a combination of both. We wanted to be noticed even if we weren’t flashing cleavage and a lot of leg. The problem was that guys noticed cleavage and legs, and they sure as hell noticed someone willing to press said assets up against them while having an “innocent” conversation. When you decide to be one of the girls in the mix not doing those things, it’s about a hundred times harder to snag guys’ attention.

Do you know how many guys had asked me out since I changed my ways and turned to the more conservative dressing and flirting route? Zero. And okay, not that guys asked me out on actual official dates before, but the second I decided I wasn’t into hooking up anymore, they seemed to lose all interest.

Only one guy had even bothered inviting me to a party, and the first time he’d done it, I thought it was more of a casual suggestion than actual caring if I went.

Now that Ryder had asked me to another party, and we were…tutoring friends…here I was, trying on every outfit in my closet, declaring one too revealing and the next too school marm-y.

Ugh, maybe I should just stay home. I could get a jump-start on my homework or make some progress on the next edition of theHeights… A lame way to spend a Saturday night, but doing so for the last several months hadn’t killed me. I hadn’t exactly been putting myself out there, and now I wondered if I had—if I’d dressed like the typical college girl and went to bars and did some mild flirting—if any guys would’ve bought me drinks. Asked for my number.

The knock at the door pulled me from theWhat ifgame. I stepped out of my bedroom and made my way across the messy living room. I had two roommates—who’d apparently had a party last night—but since I’d considered them competition when I first moved in, our chance to be BFFs had passed me by. Now they hung out with each other and occasionally glanced up when I entered the room. Last year, when I’d come home crying after things went sour with Hudson, they hadn’t even asked me what was wrong. I knew it was my fault for not trying to get to know them better, but it still stung. The reason I’d roomed with them again involved being a creature of habit, and I figured known-and-kind-of-sucky was worse than unknown-and-possibly-super-sucky.

“Whitney. Hey.” I gestured her inside. I’d hired the pretty blonde after she pitched a story on how college guys didn’t want to commit. Since she was clearly a woman scorned—much like I was—I thought she’d help me take the hockey players down with an exposé on how the college gave them unfair perks.

Confession #6:After years of viewing girls as competition, I almost didn’t give Whitney a job at the Heights because she was threateningly beautiful. Had I known she’d fall in love with one of the hockey players while writing her exposé, I definitely wouldn’t have given her a chance.

Whitney was now with the very hockey player who’d crushed my heart almost a year ago and made me target the team in the first place. Considering that fact, I liked to think of it as personal growth that not only did I not hold a grudge when her article didn’t turn out like I wanted, but that somewhere along the way, we also became sort of friends. Not super close ones, like she and her roommate Lyla were, but Whitney was the closest girlfriend I had. The closest I’d ever had, actually. I wasn’t sure if that was sad or hopeful, but I’d take it anyway.

“You ready?” she asked.

Nervous bees swarmed my stomach. What was I thinking? I couldn’t go to a hockey party. Last time I’d gone to the Quad, it was too much. Not just because of the many players inside, but because I’d started to soften toward Ryder almost immediately, and that was before I knew hardly anything about him.

Since he now knew my MO and had taken it upon himself to block all attempts at giving in to my flight response, I’d be trapped, and… My breaths quickened, coming right on top of each other.

“Lindsay?” Whitney placed a hand on my shoulder and lowered her face so it was level with mine.

“You know, I just realized how much I have to do, and I’m thinking I should really stay home and—”

“Ryder said you’d say something like that.” Whitney looped her arm through mine. “I’ve been ordered to make sure you join us.”

“I send you in to expose the hockey team and now you’re doing their bidding,” I mumbled. The pursed lips, head tilted look Whitney gave me made it clear she’d heard me loud and clear. “Sorry.”

See? Bad at making friends, at being a friend. Just when I thought I might be missing the girl gene—not like the actual double X chromosome, but the metaphorical one people referenced—a question popped out of my mouth, unbidden, because I shouldn’t care. “How’s my outfit? Do I look okay?”

I so didn’t want to care, but it was okay to want to look my best, right? I’d already captured the attention of a certain guy, and while I was having conflicted feelings about it to say the least, I didn’t want to look like a potato sack next to the puck bunnies I used to run with.Or hop with,I thought, laughing at my own joke.

“The maniacal laugh scares me a little,” Whitney said, “but I love your outfit. It’s the perfect mix of trying but not looking like you’re trying.”

“Well, your knowledge of what I’m attempting to convey with my outfit is a bit maniacal.” Words were the other reason I couldn’t help but like Whitney. She dealt in them like I did, and that meant she understood me better than most.

Is that a bad sign? Because clearly she’s into hockey players, and I really can’t go down that road again.

Before I could come up with another excuse, she gave me a solid tug and my feet automatically moved to keep up as she exited my apartment. “Come on. I’ll make you a cocktail once we get there, and that’ll take off the edge. The rest will work itself out.”

Ten minutes later, we stood near the entrance to the Quad, the crowd in front of us slowly filtering their way inside a couple of people at a time.

“So the team won their game tonight?” I asked Whitney as we walked toward the open doorway. The closer we got, the louder the music.

“Yeah. It was a close game, but they pulled it off. Playoffs this year are going to be intense, but we’ve got a great standing, and I know they can repeat as champs.” Whitney slowed her steps. “You should come to a game with Lyla, Megan, and me sometime. Just because of…what happened…doesn’t mean you can’t go watch a game.”

Most of the time, Whitney refrained from mentioning the confession I’d made to her a few months ago about her now-boyfriend and how he’d broken my heart. She didn’t even mention Hudson’s name much. I appreciated her discretion on both counts, but I’d finally reached the place where hearing his name didn’t hurt. Not that I wanted the details of their happy coupledom, but I still considered it a win.

But the intense yearning that washed over me at the mention of the hockey game made it clear that I hadn’t quite managed to rid myself of my former addiction. Even now, images of ripped hockey players were skating through my head. How I’d blow one a kiss as he glided across the rink, and he’d wink, and I knew that he’d find me later.

I worked to shut down the dirty mind reel and shove away the leftover desire. “Would you offer a drink to an alcoholic?”

Whitney shook her head. “Hardly the same thing, and you know it.”

---