Page 25 of The Tomboy and the Captain

I haven’t pickedup my jerseys from the equipment room since Coach assigned our numbers, so I relent and stop there before heading up to the AD’s office. Pete is the Tiff equipment manager. He handles everything from our hockey team’s precious golden helmets to the spikes our track team wears in the spring. He’s always watching some black-and-white TV show on the small TV he keeps in the equipment room, and I kind of think it’s the same show on repeat. It’s some cop show with a guy who smokes a lot of cigars.

“Well there’s my favorite player at Tiff. Miss Laney, I hear you got yourself a new number.” Pete’s in his seventies, and he has a thick Brooklyn accent despite having lived in Iowa for the last thirty years. I’m not sure if he has his hair anymore other than the few white tufts that poke out of his Yankees ballcap.

“Oh, you know me, Pete. Keeping you on your toes.” I have a feeling Pete knows the inner politics of this place better than anyone. But he’s too nice to say it out loud.

“Well for what it’s worth, Twenty-three was always my favorite number anyhow. It suits you.” He hands me a stack of crisp uniforms.

Head leaned a little to my right, I give him an earnest smile and say “Thanks, Pete. Now it’s mine, too.” And I mean it.

I slip out the back to avoid any run-in with Chelsea and take the stairs two at a time to the third floor of the athletics building. The director’s door is closed, so I take a seat across from his door and slip my arms out of my backpack so I can tuck my jerseys inside.

“You got called to the principal’s office too, huh?”

My eyes bulge at the sound of Cutter’s voice. I glance up as I zip my bag closed, and our eyes lock for one long-ass awkward swallow.

“Let’s not make it weird. It doesn’t have to be weird,” he says, slipping his bag from his shoulder and taking the seat one away from me. Thank god he did that. I’m not sure I need his thigh touching mine right now. Especially because he’s in black joggers and this tight black T-shirt with his hair all combed back except for the perfect few pieces that have fallen over his forehead.

“It’s not weird at all,” I lie. He calls me on it with a hard, fast laugh.

“Yeah, it is. But let’s just pretend it’s not. Then it won’t be.” He pulls a stick of gum from a pack then offers me one. My eyes squint as I try to focus on nothing but the silver foil.

“Sure. And yeah, pretend. Poof! All better.” I smile as I pop the stick in my mouth and start to chew.

Cutter’s chest puffs with a quiet laugh then he reaches toward my knees. I jerk away and give him side eyes, and he halts for a split second before continuing his reach for my bag. He tugs it toward him and lifts a brow.

“Poof all better, huh?” he sniggers.

“Shut up.”

Cutter pulls the blue jersey out and unfolds, holding it up at the shoulders. “Twenty-three, huh? You know, that’s my brother Flynn’s number.”

“Cool,” I say, snatching the jersey and bag from him. “If I ever meet him we’ll have something in common. Maybe we can date.”

A stunted laugh leaves his mouth.

“You guys wouldn’t work.” He’s oddly quick to dismiss something I was clearly just joking about. I stuff my jersey back into my bag then sit back and cross my arms over my chest.

“And why’s that?” I challenge.

Cutter gnaws at his gum as he waggles his head. “It’s hard to explain. You and Flynn are just way too different. He wouldn’t be tough enough for you.”

“Huh,” I utter then chew at the inside of my mouth as I look on at him. My head tilts to the side.

“What? I’m being honest. You need a strong man. You’re a lot, Laney Price.” His lip ticks up in a short, half-assed apology-type smile, and before I have time to think of the right thing to say, I flash my middle finger in his face.

Timing is everything, of course, and my attention is suddenly pulled toward a now open office door as our athletic director clears his throat and drops his hands into the pockets of his slick, gray dress pants.

“Always a pleasure to have you up here, Laney Price,” he says.

My eyes flutter shut and I shake my head.

“Sorry, Dr. James. Cutter McCreary does not bring out the best in me.” I shoot a quick glare at my roommate, whose only reaction is to hold up to guilty, open palms.

“Trust me, Miss Price. I’m well aware of your feelings for Mr. McCreary and the Tiff hockey program for that matter. If youcould do us all a favor this year and maybe not kick off the fall season with your usual anti-hockey talking points?”

I purse my lips and flutter my gaze from Cutter back to Mr. James.

“I’ll do my best.”

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