Page 38 of The Casanova Complex

Focus on the project.

Read the novel, write the assignment, and mark Creative Writing off my course list.

Submit my law school application. Maintain my 4.0.

Forget about cheating asshole exes and the drama that comes with him.

Forget about kissing the man who’s burned you once, and is now the bane of your existence, no matter how good said kiss was.

“I was your fake boyfriend for like five seconds. Might have been the best five seconds of my life with that kiss,” he chuckles, and I shoot him a look that only makes his grin widen. “Chill, Mer Bear. It’s no big deal. Like you said, it’s fine.”

If so, then why do those feel like famous last words?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BENNETT

Holy fuck.

I drop to my knees and slap my glove onto the ice as the horn sounds, and the arena goes fucking wild.

I have no clue how we managed it, but… we won.

Not only did we win, but we won in sudden fucking death after trailing behind three points all the way until the third period.

The comeback of a goddamn lifetime, and I can hardly even believe it.

Mostly because the last few games have been a complete shitshow, and I haven’t felt like I’ve been playing the way I needed to be.

But tonight?

I played like a motherfucking god. Saves left and right, clean passes behind the net, an assist on the winning motherfucking goal.

Every muscle in my body is burning and aching from exertion, adrenaline coursing through my blood, causing my pulse to race and my heart to fucking gallop. It feels like I’m floating on a high as the guys crowd around Zach and me, slapping us on the backs and helmets to celebrate our hard-fought win.

Damn, it feels so good.

All while Gauthreaux sat his ass on the bench and watched. That was truly the icing on the cake for tonight. I expected to be the one sitting out tonight, but Coach switched things up, and I’ve never been happier to leave that asshole where he belongs permanently.

My chest is heaving, and I’m completely soaked in sweat as we make our way to the locker room. The energy around us is fucking buzzing, and it’s exhilarating.

This is why I love hockey.

This high that lifts you up makes you feel invincible, like you’re going to burst at any moment.

I feel like I could lift a car right now.

Zach falls into step beside me, and I might just kiss the motherfucker as he slings his arm over my shoulders, which is hilarious, considering the pads I’m wearing.

“My fucking hero,” he says, and I grin. “I’m fucking back, baby.”

“Fuck yeah, you are. You’re so goddamn back, brother.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re at our favorite table in our favorite bar near campus, and I’m still buzzing with adrenaline.

“One shot,” Tyler says from across the table, rolling his eyes. “Come on, dude. It’s a tiny-ass shot of vodka. Don’t be a pussy. We have to celebrate our win. That shit was insane.”

“Yeah, exactly. You know I don’t drink the night before a game,” I tell my best friends, despite their pleading.