Page 28 of Flagrant Foul
Sweet Jesus. The state of me last night. I’m always a mess in the middle of the night, but seriously,I’m going to seduce Sev Delorean?
My cheeks flush darkly, and I thank God and all that is holy that Sev isn’t a mind reader and that I didn’t take it upon myself to make any announcements about what I was planning. It doesn’t help at all. It’s still utterly humiliating to think about, even if I’m the only one who knows about it.
For clarity, no, I will not be seducing Sev. Not now or anytime in the future. There is a myriad of very, very sound reasons for this, chief among them being that I don’t know how to seduce people. I’ve never seduced anyone, at least not on purpose. Thanks to my little obsession with Sev, I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid relationships, not get into them.
How to shut shit down the second a guy starts catching the feels? I’m all over that bad boy.
How to hook up, run, and never look back? I’m your man.
How to purposefully entice the man you want into falling in love with you? Yup. I don’t have a clue how to do that.
Last night, none of this seemed to matter. In the early hours, my lack of skill didn’t seem like a problem at all. I’m not sure if it really happened, or if I was dreaming—or hallucinating—but I’m pretty sure that at one point, I asked Mae how to seduce Sev, and she told me, “Seducing men is easy. Just present yourself in various states of undress, and say whatever filth comes to mind. No filter, no shame. Works like a charm. You’ll have himright where you want him in no time.”
Hmm, the more I think about it, the more I think I might have been hallucinating.
Not even Mae is that unhinged.
Thank God, I’ve come to my senses.
Sev hands me my coffee without wiping the mug, and I take a grateful sip.
It’s game day. We’re playing the Dogs at home, and thank God for that too. The last thing I need today is having to deal with getting to the airport and panicking about Sev being late. I’m going to use the free time to get my head on straight. I’m going to have a nap after lunch and spend some time meditating and saying my affirmations when I wake up. I’m going to be an entirely different version of myself, fresh and ready for the game, by the time I put skate to ice.
14
Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly
I’mnotfreshorready, and my head is sure as shit not on straight. I couldn’t nap because Sev was home, hot as hell, and was making this big deal of trying to be super quiet. Tiptoeing down the hall when he needed to use the bathroom, whispering when he talked to Nate on the phone, going to his own room and lying down so as not to disturb me. It was goddamn infuriating.
Do you know how hard it is to sleep when there’s a man in your house who’s trying not to make a sound?
It’s fucking impossible.
I overcook my pre-game pasta but eat it anyway, and by the time I get to the rink, I’m in a fury about traffic, bags without wheels, big groups of people, and the fact that Sev is wearing a suit.
Obviously, he’s wearing a suit. We all are. That’s not the point. The point is, Sev wears his differently from the way other men wear suits. Lots of men, most of them, in fact, kind of look like they’re playing a partwhen they put on a suit. You know, there’s something a little off about the way they stand when they’re wearing one. Something small, hard to put your finger on, that makes them look uncomfortable, or like they’re playing dress-up.
The way Sev wears his is nothing like that.
He wears a suit like it’s a second skin.
The mood in the locker room is charged, a fission of excitement wired into witty banter and shit talk. I spend the entire time I’m getting ready trying my best not to snap at anyone. I plaster a thin smile on my face and nod when anyone speaks to me, whether I agree with them or not. Across the room from me, black eyes watch me like a hawk.
It does nothing to help me calm down.
A swarm of nerves gathers, attracting each other like magnets and growing exponentially as we make our way onto the ice. I watch the countdown clock the way Sev watches me.
Five minutes until puck drop.
Three
Two
I’m in position, warmed up and stretched. I’ve checked my pads and my helmet three times. I’ve checked the net and scuffed the ice with my skates threetimes each as well. My stick is in my hand, but something feels off.
These nerves aren’t the good nerves. They aren’t the nerves that make you play better. They’re the ones that make you play worse. My intestines twist, and I don’t need to look at my hands to know they’re shaking. It’s not good. Nothing good ever comes from me feeling like this.
Sev loops around and skates over to me. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he takes hold of my shoulder, right near my neck, and squeezes the muscle he finds there so hard that one side of my body is robbed of its tension.
