Page 7 of Wrong Pucking Player

“Well, I need both of you downstairs in ten minutes for din—”

We both glance in the direction of the deeper authoritative voice that comes from Mikayla’s pink ladder entrance. It’s decorated with these cute fairy lights that come on automatically. They also turn on from movement, which is why they’re twinkling and flickering against the tall figure staring at us in dismay.

The obvious shock in Mikayla’s dad’s eyes should confirm my bestie is in trouble, but I’m sure he won’t stop himself from verbally emphasizing it.

“Mikayla Cross Johnson. What in heaven’s name happened to your hair?”

His authoritative voice reminds me that Mikayla’s dad is Coach Isaac Cross Johnson.

“We can explain,” we say in unison, but I really have to leave it to my best friend to take the lead in this one.

Coach Johnson just arches an eyebrow our way, leaving me to gesture to my best friend’s outstandingly red hair.

“Admit it. This is a work of art! A masterpiece.”

Mikayla laughs at my attempt to save the day—which fails miserably—but I really don’t know how to get her out of this one.

“Hi, Dad,” Mikayla begins with a small smile. “Let’s just say I got a little drunk last night.”

Coach Johnson is looking at her like she’s grown a second head, but he quickly shakes his head.

“Is it permanent?”

“Uh…” The way my bestie cringes at the question makes me laugh because I know her better than anyone.

This bitch didn’t check the damn label.

“Don’t tell me you just picked the hair coloring box because the color was pretty and didn’t read whether it was permanent or semi-permanent?”

Mikayla cringes and looks at me for saving grace.

I fucking lose it.

Full-blown laughter that makes my stomach hurt and tears run down my cheeks.

“Bitch. This is why we’re best friends! O.M.G. Let me dye my hair now. We can be twins!”

“Oh God, no,” she groans and shakes her head for added measure. “You know how much I love your short blonde hair. Don’t you dare change it!”

“I can be an orange head!”

“No!” Mikayla groans. “Don’t make me call Wyatt.”

“Ugh,” I begin and roll my eyes. “His opinion doesn’t fucking matter!”

Wyatt Cryus.

My ex-boyfriend of five years.

The man I’m still smitten with, even though we’d never work out as a couple.

I had too many problems.

Wyatt, on the other hand, had too many secrets.

I couldn’t really blame him.

His Dad was also a coach in the field of hockey and my ex had a legacy to uphold.

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