Page 2 of Enticing the Enforcer
IngFlock:Got any suggestions for a really good hamburger?
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Then I drop the phone on the bed beside me, exhale, and flop back on the pillow like I haven’t just DM’d some college hockey player I barely know.
Okay, maybe I’ve officially lost it.
Or maybe, just maybe, I need a burger.
And a reason not to look at Jake’s feed again.
2
Jefferson
The tattooon the inside of my bicep burns, a steady throb that flares every time I move. The boys and I each got an ‘M’ inked to represent the last four years of Wittmore, living in the Manor, and becoming more like brothers than team or housemates. A few more days, and our days playing hockey at Wittmore will come to an end. A few weeks after that, we’ll graduate, and we’ll each split off toward our future. Both Reese and Axel are free agents, hoping to get a spot on a professional roster, while Reid is already locked in with a contract in New York as well as a successful side hustle in design.
Me? Like Reid, I drafted early and have a spot waiting for me down in Florida, which meant I’ve had two primary focuses in college: playing my best and having as much fun as I can before life gets serious.
The air has a warm edge tonight. Spring is close enough to taste, even up here in the North East. Streetlights buzz overhead, casting golden halos on the sidewalk. Students pass in packs, laughter echoing down the brick alleyways that cut through thistown like veins. I’m going to miss Wittmore. The past four years have been epic. We were so close to winning the Frozen Four a year ago, but didn’t quite have what we needed to secure the trophy. We were all a lot wilder back then. Reese’s relationship with his ex was rocky as hell. Axel spent more time focused on partying, rebelling against his preacher father, than he did on the ice, and Reid… well, Reid just needed to catch a break.
The three of them are all in a better place, settled down with the kind of girls you lock down with a ring on their finger. Me?
Well.
I’ve spent the last four years having a killer time. Frat parties, sneaking into sorority row, puck bunnies, and dominating the ice. Unlike the others, keeping a balance isn’t a problem for me. I play, I fuck, I win, and do it all over again the next day.
A couple heads my way: the girl in an Ingrid Flockton t-shirt, little silver feathers hanging from her ears. And the guy? He’s wearing a Wittmore jersey. Number 23. It never gets old seeing my name and number on the fans, but I keep my hoodie pulled low. It’s too close to the championship, and I don’t feel like talking about it.
They pass, too into each other to notice me. He’s got his arm around her waist and kisses the side of her neck. I’ve got my hands shoved in my pockets, my bicep aching beneath the fresh ink.
I like feeling that little tinge of pain. I get why Axel is addicted to getting tattoos. There’s definitely a dopamine hit that comes with it. Most of all, it was a distraction from facing the idiot move I pulled earlier in the day.
The note to Ingrid Flockton.
Yep,theIngrid Flockton
I’ve been listening to Ingrid Flockton since I was fifteen years old and hiding in my brother’s beat-up Jeep. She was already famous back then–this untouchable, ethereal voice comingthrough the speakers, singing about sneaking out of bedroom windows and broken hearts. I didn’t know what half of it meant, but God, it hit hard.
Now she’s twenty-two, like me, almost a decade into a career most people couldn’t even dream up, and she’s somehow only gotten sharper. Bigger. Wilder. Her third album,Holy Feral, broke records like they were glass under her lace-up boots with five number-one singles, two sold-out world tours, including one she just extended for a few additional shows. She’s won Grammys. She’s played Glastonbury barefoot in the rain. There’s a fan theory that her fourth album was a coded love letter to a popular celebrity. I believe it. She makes everything sound like a secret you’re lucky to hear.
And yeah, I get that it’s a little weird for a guy like me to be into a pop star like this. I’m a hockey player. I get in fights, lift weights, drink beer, and fuck sorority girls, but Ingrid Flockton?
She’s a fucking goddess. Gorgeous with her long, shiny hair usually tinted pink or blue, whatever she’s feeling at the moment. She’s tall, at least five-eleven, and the way she carries herself on and off the stage looks strong. There’s no fragility there. Other than in her words.
I want to meet her. Kiss her. Give her a few moments of bliss in an otherwise crazy life. She’s been on the top of my list–yes, an actual list–of people I want to have sex with since I made it. I’ve crossed off a few others: the captain of the cheer squad, the Easton goalies' (now ex) girlfriend. That hot mom who always hung out at our neighborhood pool.
Yeah, when I want something, I go for it.
That’s why I left the note on my locker door after Coach told us to clear everything out for the show tomorrow. The show I’m missing because I’ll be in Chicago prepping for the Frozen Four. Every player knows the motto of Wayne Gretzky. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
Ingrid Flockton is coming into my house?
Yeah, I’m taking my fucking shot.
I’m halfway down the strip when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I ignore it at first. Could be anything. Could be Coach. Or a teammate. Or my brother telling me not to do something dumb in Chicago.
