Page 16 of Overtime
“Shut up,” I hiss as my phone starts buzzing again.
I can’t find the annoying thing, though. I run my hands over my pillows and under, and nothing. It buzzes incessantly until it stops. I squeeze my hand into the space between the mattress and the wall and voilà.
This time the caller was Rebs. That’s weird. We barely talk in person, forget on the phone. Still, I call her back. Twice. And she doesn’t pick up. A butt-dial, maybe? But that would only work if she made her butt the feature her phone recognizes to unlock. The mental image is so ridiculous it lifts my mood for all of a minute.
Next thing I know, the banging of the front door opening and slamming against the wall cuts through the quiet in the apartment. Followed by voices. Many. Including male ones.
I rush to my bedroom door and glue my ear to it.
“Make yourselves at home, guys!” a voice that is distinctly Lori’s says. So obviously, these aren’t burglars.
“Where’s the PS?” a guy calls out. That’s the last I discern before the chatter grows louder.
A knock on my door startles me, but then Rebs’s voice sounds from the other side. “Hey, it’s me.”
I open the door a crack and whisper, “What the heck is happening?”
“Change of plans.” She wrinkles her nose. “Tiff’s Play Station was apparently more interesting than a night out partying and drinking.”
It’s only Tuesday, I want to say, but I don’t. Nobody wants a homebody’s condescension.
“Okay.”
She pushes her blond hair behind her ear. “You can hang out with us if you want.”
I recognize the olive branch for what it is, and yet I push it right back.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“The guys are super nice,” Rebs adds in a hushed voice. “They’re also hockey players so, like, super, super hot.”
I choke on my own saliva.
I’ve gone almost four years without crossing paths with a single hockey player, and now they’re everywhere.
“Exactly.” She sighs.
“Uh, I’ll still pass.” I offer a smile I know is watery at best. “I’m kinda busy, so…”
“Okay.” She shrugs. “Just join us if you change your mind.”
Still smiling, I close my door and sag against it.
If I weren’t a frumpy mess. If I hadn’t let my mom or Lori or the bullies of the world get in my head. If I were a confident awkward turtle. Maybe then I’d have what it takes to casually chat with hot guys without making a fool of myself.
I’m dragging my feet back to my bed when my eyes zero in on my empty mug on the night table, then on the empty water bottle beside it. On cue, my stomach grumbles, demanding something. Anything.
“No,” I whisper down at the traitor. I can’t believe my plan of staying holed up in my room for the rest of the night has been foiled so quickly. I rummage through my bag and come up blank on snacks or surprise water bottles, so a trip to the kitchen must be made.
Not to be dramatic, but when I open my bedroom door, it feels as if I’m about to embark on the quest to get rid of The One Ring. Suddenly, my bedroom door is pushed open by a force that doesn’t come from me, and I stumble back.
There, in front of me, is the hottest hockey boy—again.
“Whoa, there.” Aran Rodriguez does a double take. “Strawberry?”
“What are you doing in my room?” I squeak out.
He makes a casual sweep of my surroundings with his eyes. “Obviously this isn’t the bathroom.”
