Page 21 of Treacherous
Lakewood University has a small campus compared to other colleges, with one large parking space for students that sits between all the buildings. Swinging my bag over my shoulder, I stride across through the electric sliding door.
As a business student, my classes are always in the central building. It consists of lecture halls and smaller rooms for workshops and tutorials. The copious number of stairs is one negative, with wide stairwells throughout the building.
I weave in between other students, the hockey season weighing heavy in my mind. Last year, we were within reach of winning the Frozen Four but lost our last regional semi-final. Itwas worse when the Los Angeles Lions, who I’ve been drafted with since I turned eighteen, decided to wait to offer me a contract.
Usually, junior year is when players are signed, but they wanted to see me play for one more year. It’s the reason my focus is solely on hockey for the year. Playing in the NHL has been my dream career since I took to the ice for the first time.
There isn’t a backup plan if I fail. I gulp in air, inhaling deeply.
Do not spiral.
I join the students who are filing inside the classroom, taking any seat that is available. I freeze, forgetting how to breath. Red hair and olive skin are the only features I need to recognise the person in front of me.
Willow fucking Rogers is in my class.
What is happening right now? I thought she was studying dietetics, why would she be taking this class? The questions overwhelm my brain as I search for an answer.
My skin flares and hairs on the back of my neck rise. Willow’s eyes snap to mine and I hold the contact. Her death stare is piercing, a scowl forming on her pink lips. I inch closer, watching heat fill her brown eyes.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Willow grits.
I smirk, pushing down the anxious thoughts swirled in my mind. “This is one of my electives. What are you doing here? Don’t you study dietetics?”
Willow’s lips curve into a smirk of her own. “Stalking me, are you Jay Jay? I’m honoured, but you aren’t my type.”
“You made it pretty easy to stalk since you live in my house.”
She scoffs. “Technically, it’s notyours. I can’t believe you fit inside it with the size of your ego.”
I roll my eyes. “Resorting to cliched insults, I see. Besides, the size of my ego is nothing compared to my–”
“If you mention your dick, I think that makes you a cliché too.”
“I was going to say brain, but it’s good to know you think about my cock.”
Thank God, the tutor hasn’t arrived yet, I’m quite enjoying this back and forth. Although, we agreed to be civil on the ice, a little banter off it is always the highlight of my day.
Willow grips her pen tight, until her knuckles turning white. A faint pink due rushes up her neck and into her cheeks. I swipe my tongue across my lips, knowing I elicited those reactions from Willow has made my fucking day.
The electrified air dies when the tutor enters the classroom. Inhaling, I take a seat next to Willow without a second thought. She doesn’t even protest, meaning I’ve won this moment. I ignore the devil on my shoulder, who is whispering desires into my ear.
Those thoughts need to stay dead and fucking buried.
Chapter 8
Willow Rogers
“Who’s afraid of little old me? You should be,”
The lyrics pound in my ears as my calloused fingers play with the hemline of my jersey. Thirteen–my favourite number–stitched into the front and back. Wearing a different jersey after years of donning the same colours feels weird, yet I find solace in it.
The Lakewood Hawks’ jersey is predominantly white, while the numbers are red with a black outline.
My pre-game routine hasn’t changed, despite, playing for a new team. Taylor Swift filtering through my ears, along with other upbeat power anthems to set the mood.
Nerves can grab hold of me before games, causing nausea to rule my body. It’s a terrible feeling and the more intense it grows, harder to becomes to shake.
I breathe in, inhaling the sweat and a tinge of my lavender perfume. The latter of which won’t last after I hit the ice. Everyone is sitting in their wooden cubby in the locker room, with many of my teammates fixing their equipment. I’m doing the same, tightening the laces on my skates.
