Page 2 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
The rink is nicer than I remember. Having grown up in Seattle, I used to come to games and concerts here at the Havoc Dome. The Seattle Havoc hockey team has been in this city forever; the players themselves have insanely devoted fans that border on psychotic.
The view from the box is incredible, right at center ice, with actual comfortable seating and a server who brings us overpriced wine without making it feel like a transaction.
I settle in and try to look like I belong here. Watching the team as they skate around the ice, it’s impossible to keep my thoughts to myself.
“If their point man can’t keep the puck in the zone, that power play’s just cardio.”
"You didn't tell me you were a hockey nerd," Jessa says, watching me track a power play setup.
I shrug and take a sip of wine. "My ex was a pro. You pick things up when you spend five years pretending to care about advanced stats and penalty kills."
"Five years. Damn."
"Five years wasted," I mutter, mostly to myself.
The words taste bitter, but they're true. Patrick taught me to love hockey, then used it as another way to make me feel small. Every game was a test I didn’t know I was taking. Every new rule just proved I didn’t belong.
I force my mind away from him. He’s not allowed to take up any more of my brainpower.
On the ice, something violent is happening near the boards. A massive player in a Havoc jersey just laid out someone from the visiting team, and now he's dropping his gloves. Even from up here, I can see the rage radiating off him as he starts throwing punches.
Hunter Huxley.The Chainsaw.
I swallow.
Jessa points to the crowd erupting around us. Half the arena is on their feet, waving foam chainsaws and screaming for blood. "His fans are insane. Look at them. They cheer every time he punches someone. Bloodthirsty little freaks."
I don’t answer. But I know all about Hunter. We both went to the University of Washington at the same time. He was on the hockey team. And me? I was the girlfriend of his rival.
Once, I thought we would be more than just acquaintances. But Hunter let me know just how wrong I was.
I know Hunter. He’s not misunderstood by his fans. He’s just an asshole. If I had to write a letter to him about my feelings, it would start with:
Dear #47,
You’re the worst.
And it would only get darker from there.
Hunter is enormous. 6”6’. His height is always mentioned in his stats. He’s just a big guy. His wingspan is huge, his hands are giant, and his build resembles Frankenstein’s monster. Except his movements aren’t jerky and spastic. No, they’re graceful.
Damn him.
He moves across the ice like a shark cuts through deep water. Focused, intent, his mere presence threatening. A player on the other team seems to take issue with Hunter and drops his gloves.
I watch Hunter shed his gloves faster than it seems like someone that big ought to move. Then he skates right up to the guy, landing a right hook that sends the other player sprawling. A jet of blood sprays across the ice. Hunter has a smug look on his face that makes me want to scream.
Asshole.
The guy that he’s fighting with comes back with a weak blow to Hunter’s nose. Hunter straight up uppercuts the guy and the other player collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. Hunter pulls at his helmet, pulling it off. He has dirty blond hair with a messy cut and gray-blue eyes absolutely furious as the refs herd him backward from the other player. He skates toward the penalty box, jaw clenched, blood on his knuckles and his face. When he passes the rinkside camera, something low in my stomach tightens.
I hate how hot he looks when he's pissed off. Ugh, I hate that I notice.
My dress smoothed, I straighten, remembering why I avoid this. Men like Hunter are exactly the problem. All heat and impulse, all rage and recklessness. He reminds me of everything I swore off after Patrick. I’m not the girl who falls for chaos anymore. I crave control, safety, and a future I build myself.
Because I’ve always liked hotheads, I can’t trust my opinion. But Hunter isn't just hot-tempered. He's actually violent, throws punches for a living. That's a hard no from me. Besides, I will never, ever date another hockey player. That's a promise I made to myself, and I'm keeping it.
Not that he’d ever ask me out. I’m pretty sure he hates me as much as I loathe him.
