Page 22 of The Casanova Complex

I wink at him and nod, reaching for my own and taking a bite.

Thank fuck my mom taught me how to cook the basics, or none of us would eat, and I’d be skin and bones, withering away.

I also got my dramatics from her too, if you couldn’t tell.

I inhale the entire bowl in two minutes flat, just in time for Zach to make his way downstairs.

All of us—Tyler, Zach, and I—have been living together in a house near campus since my sophomore year, and most of the time, it’s sweet.

Other times, it’s not.

But as far as roommates go, it could be a lot worse than sharing a house with my teammates who are my best friends.

They’re just messy fuckers who never, and I do mean never, clean up after themselves.

Sometimes I feel like a glorified housewife, cooking and cleaning up after everyone, but then again, someone has to do it.

I get this weird eye twitch when everything’s a wreck.

“Yo,” Zach drawls, walking over to where I’m sitting on the couch. He’s freshly showered and shaved, which is a rare occurrence for a Sunday night. “What are you doing? Get up, let’s go out.”

“Can’t. Busy.”

He scoffs. “What do you mean busy? It’s Sunday night, and there’s a party at Kappa. I have it on very good authority that there will be copious amounts of beautiful women to choose from, the majority puck bunnies.”

Perfect, I’ve always loved just looking at beautiful things I can’t touch. Like a kid in a candy store with the world’s worst sweet tooth and not a cent in my pocket.

“Busy doing smart boy shit,” I retort, lifting the book in my hand and waving it back and forth between us.

His eyes widen, his expression turning deadly serious for a minute.

Until he tosses his head back and laughs, and fucking laughs and laughs.

“Yeah, okay. I’m leaving in five. Be ready. You’re driving this time. I was DD last week.”

I sigh. “I’m serious, you fuck. I’ve got to read this for my Creative Writing class.”

“Dude. You’re telling me right now that you’re reading a book by…” He trails off and squints to read the front cover. “Charlotte Brontë? Are you fucking with me?”

“Nope. I’m for real.” I open it, picking a page at random. “I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent schoolroom. It was the tedium of your life that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight o—” I groan and drop the book on my face. “Jesus, what the fuck does this even mean? I see words, but what the hell am I actually reading?”

“Yeah, I got nothing. There’s probably like a movie or something, dude. Just watch that and save yourself this shit,” he says with a laugh.

I’m in actual fucking hell right now.

But I refuse to admit defeat.

Nah, fuck that.

Actually, the fact that Merritt assumes that I’m a dumb hockey player with shit for brains only makes me want to prove her wrong that much more.

To show her that she might think she knows who I am, but she’s got no fucking idea.

Plus, seeing her cute little face when she realizes how wrong she is will be the icing on the cake.

The last thing I am is the kind of guy who buckles under pressure. It’s the main reason why I’m so good at tending the net. Because I’m patient, and I’m willing to wait for the perfect moment, every time. No matter what it takes.

Merritt St. Pierre has no idea just how patient I can be.