The door swings open before I have a chance to knock. That’s not what surprises me. It’s Twyler herself.
Fuck, she’s cute.
“Hey.” Her fingers tug her jeans. The nervous action draws my eyes to her waist and the strip of pale skin exposed by her cropped sweatshirt. My cock twitches in appreciation. Why did I agree to abstain from hooking up during this?
Shifting, I blink, taking in the curve of her hips. Then she’s gone, stepping back inside, saying, “I’m almost ready.”
She doesn’t invite me in, but she also doesn’t slam the door in my face, so after a beat, I step inside the narrow house and shut the door behind me. The Shotgun homes, other than the Manor, are uniform. Long and skinny, just enough room for a couple of people. A couple of normal-sized people. With my height, I feel like a giant, like if I stretched my arms out, I could probably touch both walls.
“No rush,” I say, looking around. There are two doors—both open. I glance in one and see it decorated in bright oranges and pinks—it also looks like a tornado recently passed through. The one right next to it is a bit darker. Gray, black, and a little light pink. Not spotless, but tidy. Twyler’s trademark blue hoodie hangs over the back of her desk chair.
“It’s just you and Nadia that live here?” I ask, giving the open bathroom door some space.
“Yeah, we’ve been roommates since freshman year.”
“I’ve lived with Jefferson since then, too.”
She walks out of the bathroom, hair down, and curled in long waves. Her eyes are smoky and dark, making the blue three shades brighter. Three silver hoops hang in both ears and a chain loops twice around the base of her neck—a small medallion resting against her throat. I think back to how she reacted to me touching her neck earlier today, the panic and discomfort in her eye.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was scared.
Twyler said something about a shitty ex doing a number on her, and seeing her like this, I have to believe it, because there’s no way guys on campus wouldn’t have noticed her if she’d wanted it.
She’s more than cute. She’s bordering on hot.
“I just need my coat and we can go.”
She passes me, stepping into her room, and I wait in front of a massive bulletin board hanging on the wall between the two bedroom doors. It’s filled with photos, including a furry black cat that seems to be the star of the board. Otherwise, it’s mostly Twyler and Nadia. There are other mementos, like silly handwritten notes and a dozen ticket stubs held up by push pins. I thumb through them, noticing they’re all from the same band; The New Kings.
There’s one photo of Twyler and two other women out in front of the arena. All dressed in Badger yellow and black. One woman is older, and one about the same age as Twyler, all with identical blue eyes.
She steps out of her room, and I point to it. “Is this the sister?”
“Yep.”
“And your mom?” I guess.
Honestly, the woman in the photo looks pretty young, but Twyler replies, “That’s us. The Perkins girls.”
No mention of a dad.
“You all look a lot alike.”
She snorts. “Don’t tell Ruby that.”
“Why?” I study the women. The genes are strong. Ruby’s face is a little narrower and her hair a shade lighter, but the eyes and nose are the same. Twyler’s got a rounder face, thick, dark lashes, and pretty, soft, pink lips.
“Because she thinks she’s better than me. Better looking. Better in school. Better daughter. Okay,” she says, finally stopping to look at me. Her eyes start at my head and slowly move down before pinging back up. “Ready to get this over with?”
I laugh.
“What?”
“I’ve never been out with a girl so ready for our date to be over with.” I open the door, while she puts on her coat. “Well, unless it was just to get to the stuff at the end of the date.”
Her gaze dropping back to the ground, she says, “You say stuff like that just to make me blush, don’t you?”
“Yep.” I can’t deny that it’s impossible not to mess with her when she gets so flustered, but I know if I’m going to get her to go through with the rest of the night, I need to ease off. “You okay with walking? I can call a ride if you’d rather.”
“Walking’s good,” she says, and we head down the sidewalk toward the main road that cuts through campus and leads to The Strip, the hub of Wittmore’s nightlife.
“If we’re going to pull this off,” I say, falling in step, “we should probably learn a little about each other.”
“What do you want to know?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Where are you from?”
“Tennessee.”
That comes as a surprise, although I’d noted the hint of a southern twang in her accent. “Really? How did you end up here?”
“I was ready for something new, I guess. My aunt and uncle live a couple of miles from campus, and we would visit in the summers. I always thought the campus was pretty and I could see myself here. When I saw they had Kinesiology as a major, it seemed like a perfect fit.”
“So how did you get into sports training, anyway?”
She tells me about the program at her high school and how her coach was more like a mentor. He got her interested in pursuing it as a degree. “It’s hard to explain, but I like being part of the game experience, you know, feeling the energy, but sitting with the crowd always felt a little boring and overwhelming. I’d rather be busy, and this way I get to do both.”
“That makes sense.” I press the crosswalk button. The row of bars and restaurants start a block down and the glow of lights travels to us. “But why hockey?”
She laughs. “Oh, that was kind of a fluke. I wanted to be assigned to the basketball team, but when I turned in my internship application my advisor pushed me to take the open position for the hockey team. Truthfully, I think they were looking to diversify the staff—since you guys have a whole bro-culture going on. I guess they figured I may be the only female that could handle working with a bunch of alpha-male jocks.”
“They weren’t wrong.” We cross the street and I shift to the side nearest the road. Up ahead groups of students are stepping into the various establishments. The neon sign for the Badger Den shines in the dark. “The guys like you. I know a couple would rather have you do their wraps than Green.”
“Why? Because they don’t want to look at his mustache?”
“I’d like to say no, but… maybe?” Coach Green has a signature, thick bushy-mustache, that is his pride and joy. I laugh. “Fuck, that thing is a beast, right?”
“Yes! It’s like an animal glued to his upper lip,” she agrees. “I don’t know how his wife stands it. I’d make my husband shave it off or he couldn’t come in the house.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is with you? Your way or the highway?”
She shrugs, but doesn’t hide her smile. “I’m just saying, a little scruff is okay, sexy even, but a weasel on your face is a hard no.”
By the time we approach the door she’s loosened up a little. “Hey.” I tug on her jacket, slowing her down. I can tell through the window it’s already packed. I like this. Talking to Twyler. Learning about her. Once we get inside it’ll be loud and crowded. “You didn’t ask me any questions.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrow lifts. “I guess I don’t need to.”
“Really?” Is she that disinterested? “Why?”
“Because, Cain,” she pauses, her hand wrapped about the bar door, “there’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know.”
“Breathe, Sunshine.”
Her neck cranes and those blue eyes meet mine. “Don’t call me—”
I can’t help but grin because messing with her is the only way to get her out of her head. She scowls when she realizes it. “You good?”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, it’s happening.” We’re just inside the door and any loosening up she’d done on the walk to the bar vanished when we stepped across the threshold. I slide my hand into hers, adhering to our preestablished rules. Also, I don’t put it past her to bolt again and I’m not jogging all over town again to find her. She’s fast for someone so short. “But I promise to stick by your side all night.”
The Badger Bar is a Wittmore hockey landmark. It’s also a dive. Framed photos of past teams line the walls, along with signed pictures of the guys that went on to go pro. There’s an entire section for past Frozen Four winners and matted newspaper articles. It’s basically a shrine to local hockey and even as a kid, when my dad brought me here for the first time after watching a game, I knew I wanted to be on the wall.
On game nights, fans pack the place to watch the game on one of a dozen screens. On other nights, like this one, when we don’t have late practice, the team congregates looking to blow off a little steam. It’s not just hockey players though, there are plenty of girls that hang around, which means guys from all over campus will be here. I spot a group from Zeta Sig hogging the dartboard.
“Do you see them?” she asks, fingers tightening against mine. Her hand is so small and frankly, a little sweaty. She’s the complete opposite of Shanna, or really any of the girls I hang out with. They love athletes because they love competition. Going up against one another to see who can attain the attention of a jock. Twyler doesn’t seem to care–at all. She’s nervous and I like it—better than hiding behind that tough exterior. Nervous I can work with.
“Cap!” Reid’s voice carries from the back corner. His hand shoots up and waves us over. Keeping a tight grip on her hand, I lead her through the crowd to the booth. Teammates, girls, fans, they all say hello as I pass. If anyone notices me dragging Twyler behind me, they don’t mention it. That doesn’t mean they don’t see her though. I hear the guys’ excitement when they spot her, calling out her name.
“Hey!” Axel looks past me and grins down at her. “This makes twice in one week.”
“Axel,” she says, voice quiet over the noise and music. She looks him up and down. “I see you found a shirt to wear tonight.”
Pete laughs behind his hand. “She called you out, man.”
Axel’s lips quirk and he reaches for the hem of his shirt, exposing the waist of his low-slung jeans. “I can lose it if you want.”
“Shirt on,” I say, giving him a hard look. “Remember what Mike said last time.”
Axel sighs and drops the fabric. “Maybe next time, TG.”
“TG?” Twyler asks.
“Trainer Girl,” he replies with a wink. Axel gives everyone a nickname. I’m never sure if it’s because he doesn’t actually know their real names or if he just likes handing them out. Regardless, once he’s given someone a name, it’s a done deal.
“Who’s Mike?” Twyler asks as I lead her past the pool tables where a puck bunny I hooked up with last week plays a game with one of the rookies. She grins and I give her a friendly but disinterested nod. “And what did he say last time?”
“Mike is the owner of the bar. A former defenseman from back in the nineties. Due to Axel’s need to strip down everywhere we go, he had to enforce a strict no clothes-no service policy.”
We approach the booth and there’s no missing the way Nadia’s jaw drops when she sees us. To her credit, she recovers quickly. “You didn’t tell me you were coming…” She says, eyes pinging between us, “…with Reese.”
“Last minute plans,” Twyler says, sliding across from Nadia.
Reid gives her the once over and says, “Like the hair.”
“Why does everyone get so weird when I wear my hair down?” she asks, tugging at one long curl.
Nadia grins. “Because it takes you from cute to smokin’ hot, babe.”
“She’s right,” Reid says, adding a wink. “Smokin’.”
Twyler rolls her eyes, and she may think Reid’s messing with her, but I know better. I see the spark of interest in his eye, like he’s seeing her for the first time too. These guys have spent two seasons around Twyler in her ratty hoodie and pulled-back hair. But unwrap those layers, revealing the woman underneath, and they see what I’ve started to notice too.
And I don’t fucking like it.
“Come on,” he says, drawing me out of my irritation. “Let’s go hit the bar.”
“So what’s up with you and the trainer?” Reid asks after we’ve fought the crowd and ordered from the bartender.
“I decided to take my own advice.” I shrug. “It’s time for something new.”
He leans his elbow against the bar and snorts. “Well, she’s definitely something new for you.”
There’s no denying that Twyler is the opposite of any girl I’ve been seen with before. From Shanna to the puck bunnies, I’ve always had a type. Twyler goes against it—which is exactly the point.
“I’m focusing on the season,” I tell him. “And that includes cooling it with the puck bunnies for a while. Also, Twyler’s fun to hang around. It’s nothing serious.”
He lets it drop as the bartender pushes the pitcher of beer across the bar top and Reid grabs it as I pick up two new glasses. Or at least I think he does. He turns to me, his red hair glinting in the neon lights behind the bar, and says, “She’s a cool chick, Cap, and I really like the way she deep tissue massages my hamstrings.” His expression is dead serious. “Don’t fuck this up.”
I can’t tell him that there’s no way for me to fuck this up when the whole thing is fake and Twyler Perkins has zero interest in me anyway.
