25. ARAN

CHAPTER 25

ARAN

W e're on the way to the second to last game that will decide if we go to regionals. I know we will, but half of the team is collectively crapping their pants and the other half is frozen. There's little chatter on the bus, which suits me well because I'm in the mood for it even less than usual.

I sit at the very back on my own, headphones on and blasting something hardcore. My knee bounces nonstop. If anyone was paying any attention to me, they'd think I was nervous.

About the game? No. Our opponents are down their star striker. It's not like I'm underestimating them for that reason. They're just one of those teams built around a single player. Without this guy, they'll crumble against our defense. And if not, they'll have a wall between them and the net.

However, for the past two weeks, Strawberry and I haven't been able to schedule a single tutoring session.

Between studying for midterms, the midterms themselves, increased practice time, PT sessions, scheduled games, interviews with pro recruiters, cooking, and sleeping, we've seen neither hair nor hide of each other. Which is a damn shame because I like both of hers a lot.

And that's a problem.

Because I can't find another excuse for reverse tutoring. And I can't ask her out because a) I have no time, b) Coach sniffing around, and c) we're about to graduate—and then what? I don't know what she's planning to do after college. I don't know where I'm going to land either. What would be the point of starting something now?

I should've taken that damn elective a year ago. Maybe then…

I lean my head against the cold window and stare into the dark. An apt metaphor for how my future looks right now. Strawberry would be proud of me for knowing what a metaphor is.

I check my phone for the billionth time. Still no texts from her.

Except for the one time a bunch of Bolts and Strikes got together at my place, I haven't seen her since the lake. I wish we could've stayed together longer that time and that I hadn't had practice that afternoon. But maybe it would've been worse. Because we might've scored in each other's nets, and I'd be a lot more tangled now.

I stare at my bouncing knee. But maybe I wouldn't feel so restless. Maybe I wouldn't be checking my phone every five freaking seconds.

Unlocking the screen, I find Strawberry's contact and reread the last exchange—just a friendly good luck on your next game and thanks . In theory, there should be nothing more to say. With other girls, I rarely said more than this. But she's not other girls. She's…

Strawberry.

I convince myself to stop the knee-bouncing by taking action.

Me

*Grunt*

Time passes slower than usual as I stare the crap out of the screen. It works, though, because her three dots appear.

Strawberry

Well if it isn't my favorite caveman

I spring forward so fast that I slam my forehead into the seat in front of me. A vague protest filters through the music playing in my ears, but I ignore it while I type back.

Me

Didn't know I was your favorite anything

Oh, shit. I know what I'm doing, and I can't stop myself. Probably because I don't even try. I'm flirting, and I know it.

Her three dots appear and disappear. Every time they go away, I glare at the screen as if it's the enemy. But finally, her response comes through.

Strawberry

You're my favorite in two categories:

1) Caveman

2) Student

Me

What about favorite tutor

Strawberry

Um, you're my only tutor, so that's not really fair to say

Maybe if I get at least one more and have a basis for comparison…

She better not. I don't want to become a murderer.

"Shit," I mutter, rubbing a hand up and down my face. I have no right to act like a possessive tool. We're not together. She can play the field if she wants. It's not my business. But the thought of some other dude putting his hands—or his mouth, or any appendages—on her, makes me want to break something. And it shouldn't.

So I change the topic.

Me

I'm bored on a bus full of panicky fools

What are you doing

Her next text comes right away.

Strawberry

I'm hiding from mother dearest and an overzealous group of bridesmaids in the dressing room of a bridal shop

Definition of overzealous , I type into my browser.

Huh, is that what I'm being right now? Except I'm not sure what my objective here is, other than talking with her.

And that's a first. I've always known where I stand with the women in my life. With Mom and my sisters, it's obvious. They exist to annoy me and ignore me, and I'm here to caveman them as much as Dad does. With Ryan, it's also clear-cut. She's a friend I discuss hockey captaincy things with and also trade insults with that pack no punch. With the girls I've dated, it was even easier. They were just temporary distractions.

Maddie Berkley doesn't fit into any of those categories. And the problem is, I'm not interested in anything outside of them—but I'm interested in her .

Me

I have exactly an hour before we reach destination

So why hiding and why overzealous

Strawberry

*Sighing emoji*

Don't forget you asked for details, so here we go

The dress is HIDEOUS

It makes me look like a misshapen potato even though it's too tight??

And Mom keeps saying I must've put on weight, but I didn't!!

And if I did, so what? It happens!

Meanwhile the bridesmaids keep offering up their cousins or their friends' friend who is "totally not a creep"

Me

They're offering what?

Strawberry

Their friends

For my plus-one

But it doesn't matter. I'll just ask Wyatt

The hell she will.

Before I even process what I'm doing, my fingers type up a message lightning fast and hit send.

Me

You have a plus-one already

Strawberry

I do?

Me

Your favorite tutor

Her three dots appear and stay on the screen for-freaking-ever without ever changing into coherent words. Until finally she responds.

Strawberry

I don't know

"Why the hell not?" I ask myself in a grumble. Does she really want to take the Wyatt guy?

I press pause on my music and slide my headphones around my neck, because the roaring in my ears doesn't let me hear squat anyway. I'm racking my brain for ways to convince her when she messages me again.

Strawberry

I don't think you want to subject yourself to my family

Me

Is there going to be free food

Strawberry

Obvi

It's a wedding

Me

Then I'm in

Strawberry

Uhh

Aran, I can't ask you for that favor

A favor?

It is not a damn favor. I'm not doing this out of pity. I just want to?—

No, you know what? Favor it is. That way it's not a date, which I can't do unless I want Coach to bench my ass, because Murphy's Law has a thing for me.

Me

Sure you can

First, it won't be free. I will eat all the food

And hopefully at least eat her mouth again.

Me

Second, we can make a tutoring session out of it

Strawberry

Really?

What would be the study subject?

Her thighs. I have a real curiosity about those. Instead, I steer my answer to something I know will win her over.

Me

Didn't your book have fake dating?

Strawberry

*Wide-eyed emoji*

Me

What

I pay attention

Sometimes. Not often for things outside of hockey. And not to a lot of people. She doesn't need to know that.

Strawberry

Tempting

But we all know fake dating isn't a real thing

Me

Pretty sure I just showed you how real it is

I blow a raspberry. Fake dating is the most bullshit thing I've heard of in my life. I had to work really hard to not laugh my ass off while she was telling me about it on the way back from the lake. People read that shit?

According to her, people don't just read it; they lap it up. And now I can see why. I'm desperate for her to agree to the little scheme.

Strawberry

Hmm, good point

I guess it'd be better if you're my plus-one instead of a friend who has a girlfriend

Me

What

Strawberry

Wyatt, he's taken, but I was this close to desperation

The noise that comes out of my mouth sounds like a cross between a snarl and a growl.

I could punch myself in the teeth. You're telling me I acted such a fool that I basically threw an entire game in the trashcan because I saw her sitting with her guy friend ?

I put a hand on my head. Jealousy. That was the hot, blinding rage that made me miss pucks and throw punches at the millionth racist asshole I've encountered playing hockey. How am I only realizing that right now?

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

I glue the screen of my phone to my chest and turn to Archie, who's now sitting next to me. "Where did you come from?"

"My mom." He eyes my phone. "Who you texting that has you kicking and squealing like a toddler?"

"I don't squeal. What the hell?"

"Your version of it sounds like a wild wolf."

"Go away, Archibald."

Instead, he leans closer and whispers, "Who's the girl?"

"It's your mom," I say in a deadpan.

"Tell her I don't want to have a stepfather my age and that she could do better."

I push him so hard he stumbles into the aisle. He recovers his balance quickly, and as he scoots back to the seat in front of me, he whispers, "Head in the game, Rodriguez. Not in the girl."

"Eat shit."

His chuckling abates as he sits back down, facing forward. But his words dance a jig in my head. I have to focus on tonight's game. And then the next. And then it's regionals. Four games to become the national champions. And then there's no way a pro team won't sign me. I don't need distractions.

Then I check my phone again and find more texts.

Strawberry

I'll give you a chance to change your mind

Going once

Going twice

Too late. You're my plus-one now

The corner of my lips curves.

Good thing we established that Strawberry isn't just a distraction, huh?

Me

Don't we need to coordinate now

What color is the dress

Strawberry

Oh, you're going to love it

It's pink

Of course there was a catch. I sigh as I type again.

Me

Show pic

Need exact shade

Immediately, a picture of a pink dress balanced on a weird hanger shows up. If I could roll my eyes harder, they'd get stuck.

Me

Pic of YOU wearing it

Strawberry

No

Me

Yes

That's how I'll know the real shade

I couldn't give two flying turds about the color of this dress. It could be the color of baby diarrhea for all I care. I just want a picture of her. In the dress. That has very little fabric at the top.

Strawberry

Is this for real, or are there nefarious purposes?

Me

Both

Strawberry

*Blushing and laughing emoji*

You COULD have been a forward with how forward you are

I grin.

Me

I thought you weren't so shy anymore

Strawberry

Okay fine, let me put the dang dress on again

I hunch against the window, because no one better be watching over my shoulder for this.

Me

Wait a damn moment

Were you texting me in the nude

Strawberry

Obviously NOT

I have underwear on

Me

Did I mention I also need to know the exact shade of that

To coordinate ofc

Strawberry

Aran Rodriguez

Are you sexting me?

Me

Technically no. Apparently I'm the only one fully clothed

"Are you focused tonight, son?"

Slowly, as if I haven't been heavily flirting with my tutor, I slide my phone away from sight and look up at Coach Green. He stands in the aisle before me, grabbing the backrests of the seats in front of me. I know my face is impassive, but my heart races at full speed, and it's not because he showed up silent as a ghost.

"Yes, sir."

Ish. Once I suit up, I'll be Aran "the Iceberg" Rodriguez, the ice wall before the net.

"Good. Our opponent should be easy, but don't underestimate it."

"No, sir."

He chews his gum for a moment, watching me as if he can read my mind. "I made some calls, and there will be a lot of eyes on you tonight."

I nod. "I won't disappoint, sir."

"I know you won't. You've been sticking to our terms, and I plan to start you for every game as long as you don't lose your cool. This is your last chance to impress, Rodriguez."

What terms is he talking about?

And then it slams into me like a slapshot to the teeth. He's talking about the no dating, focusing only on the game little deal he coerced me into.

"Right," I say curtly.

Coach reaches down and pats my shoulder twice before heading back out to the middle of the bus to give essentially the same speech to everyone else. I'm not the only guy on this team eager to be recruited, whether as a free agent or in the draft, in the case of the younger guys. But it's a bit different for me. Goalies aren't typically the flashiest players. We're also not the bulk of a hockey team's roster, so recruiters tend to pay less attention to us.

And this is my last chance.

My phone pings with a message from Strawberry. I unlock the screen and nearly die of a heart attack right in my seat.

She took the picture without capturing her face, but there's a marked flush down her neck and across the expanse of her chest. And there's a lot of chest. The fabric puts it on glorious display without being obscene. Although maybe it is, considering what it's doing to me. I barely register anything else about the dress, other than it's the exact hue of her flushed skin and that it hugs her hips perfectly.

I rub my chest hard. What am I going to do with her?

Or, more accurately, what am I going to do with myself?