Page 20 of The Groupie

Zak

What the actual fuck? It’s her.

“What are you doing here?” Rylee asks, and I wonder if my sick imagination conjured her up because flickers of last night interrupted my flow all through the morning skate.

“What?” Shit. I’m holding a fucking hockey stick, caught red-handed as not a banker. I can’t keep up the lie, but I’m not up for a messy explanation in the hallway near the locker rooms with my teammates lurking around either. So, I punt.

“I’m looking for the equipment manager. What the hell are you doing here?” I flick a look at her friend, and she looks familiar. Then I snap my fingers. “You’re Nowicki’s latest… You’re with Nowicki, right?” Shit. I hate awkward scenes with women, especially women I don’t know.

The short blond girl rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m with Nowicki. We’re actually dating if you want to know the truth. You’re his roommate, right?”

Rylee stares at her friend in disbelief. “Of all the bars and all the hookups…” she mutters, then looks my way, folding her arms and looking like she’ll wait all day for an explanation.

I shrug. “I’m a hockey player. For the Brawlers. Not a banker.”

“I got that. Any reason you lied to me?”

“Probably the same reason you lied to me.” I’m betting she’s not an independently wealthy socialite and wondering what the hell she has to hide.

“So you two…hooked up?” Suzie starts laughing, and her laugh gains momentum.

After a few beats, Rylee smacks her on the back. “Calm down, Suzie. It’s not that funny.”

“Yes. It is. Especially after you—”

“Never mind.” Rylee shoots her friend a glare, the kind with edge. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little turned on. It’s a different kind of edge than she had last night, but it reminds me.

Suzie pulls her phone from her pocket and reads a text. “It’s Nowicki. We’re going out tonight after the game.” She looks up and winks at me. “We’ll be out all night.”

“Congratulations,” Rylee says, re-folding her arms and standing with all her weight on one foot.

“Perfect,” I say to Rylee, and her gaze grabs hold of me, bringing back every electrifying shot from last night. “How about if I get you a ticket to the game, and you stay over tonight?”

She turns her attention to me, her mouth opens, then shuts, wearing an expression like she thinks I escaped from the nearest alien spaceship.

My invitation hangs in the loaded air between us for an uncomfortable beat as my dick hardens, and I start to wonder what the fuck possessed me to invite her back. Especially now that she knows who I am.

Maybe it’s because she was so thoroughly unimpressed to find out I’m a hockey player. In fact, she looks pissed and about to shut me down. Her frown signals rejection, and I should cut my losses, and walk away, but no. I see red like the proverbial bull. She may as well have slapped my face with the white glove of challenge. I smile.

Since when am I a glutton for punishment?Since when do I go after the girl who plays hard to get? I’m an easy-going guy, all about the easy-going non-relationships with women. I don’t chase or beg or even take chances. Hockey is the challenge in my life; the rest of it is reserved for fun and games.

Not about trying to score a woman who lied to me, especially not for a second round. That spells complicated.

The opposite of what I need.

But apparently my dick brain doesn’t care what the rest of me needs, and it has taken control. I’ve fucking turned into an adolescent dick brain with something to prove.