BLAZE: Enemies to Lovers College Hockey Romance Eddie Cleveland (best mobile ebook reader .TXT) 📖

The SUV feels a lot like driving a bus. It’s weird being up front, with both of them behind me. Am I supposed to get out and open their doors for them when we get to Hector House? I feel like there’s a window missing, the tinted one that’s supposed to separate them from me. The one that they only roll down to address their driver.

Blaze’s phone screen lights up his face. Rookie stares out his window into the darkness.

“There.” Blaze looks right into the rear-view mirror, and I feel so busted. Even though I’m not facing him and it’s dark, I feel like he can tell I’m blushing.

“What?” I answer.

“A car will be waiting for you when you drop us off.”

It’s so quiet. The wheels humming against the road sound louder than static on the radio. I hate that I keep looking back at him. It’s not very professional to remember how his tattooed hands felt. Firm. In fact, all of him was very firm.

When we all get out at Hector House, and I hand Blaze back the keys, it’s Rookie who says, “Thank you.”

Blaze scoffs, “Yeah. Thanks.” There is zero percent gratitude in his words.

“If I have to come out like this again, I’m calling Coach Wilson.” I don’t even bother looking at Blaze when I say it. It’s only Rookie who cares.

“Get in your fucking Uber.” Blaze shakes his head, my words landing like duds at his feet.

I know I’ve made myself clear. Standing here arguing with Blaze about this is pointless. I go to the car waiting for me down at the curb. A woman with a smile that reminds me of my grandmother waves at me from the driver’s seat. I get in, and she’s super friendly and doesn’t seem even slightly judgy about where she’s taking me. If she has any personal opinions about my return to the strip club, she doesn’t show them.

When we get to the parking lot, she pulls up next to my Neon. “Okay, I’m gonna wait here and make sure you get in alright.” She watches me push the door open and get out.

“You don’t have to do that,” I answer.

“I promised I would. The guy who booked the ride insisted.”

Blaze?

I don’t ask her. I just get inside my car. My head is spinning from this crazy night. Driving back to my place, my thoughts can’t be pushed back anymore. All the images I’ve been trying not to think about come flooding back. That night when I was a senior. I remember his firm hands, how they felt, pressed into my naked body. We were sober enough to know what we were doing and drunk enough not to care.

It’s weird to look in the eyes of someone who once had their dick inside you and see no recognition from them at all, like he has some kind of amnesia. More like sex amnesia. He fucks so many bunnies, of course he doesn’t remember the night I made the craziest most impulsive decision of my life. Even this many years later, the sex he doesn’t remember is the sex I can’t forget.

5

Prince Harry or Killer Clown Priscilla

My car is snugly tucked into the side of the building. This is one of the perks of having an office at the Westbury Arena. Other places on campus, parking this close to the front door comes at a premium. At the main administration building, the payments begin at first-born child and go up from there.

Grabbing my winter coat and purse, I head outside. I’m greeted by a big, blue sky and sunshine glinting off banks of snow. It’s like something out of a Christmas movie until I walk in through the double doors, and my senses are assaulted with a double whammy.

The freezing air in here will almost double you over, it’s such a shock to the system. They call this arena The Witch’s Tit because it’s an absolute icebox. If the cold doesn’t wake you up, the weird funk will. It smells like metal, sweat and ice.

I’ve always thought of ice as having its own smell. Maybe it doesn’t. I guess it’s more of a feeling. That cold-tip-of-the-nose, rosy-cheeks, catching-snowflakes-on-your-tongue kind of feeling.

Zipping my winter jacket, I go through the main entrance and up the stairs to a corridor of oversized windows that overlook the arena. The view is yet another perk of this place. You don’t have to be a fan of hockey to appreciate the skill. They tear up the ice so fast, I feel a little scared for them. I refuse to focus on any one person, but my traitorous eyes land on Blaze. I don’t mean to watch him. I wish I could walk by without even noticing him. Yet, my eyes don’t move and my feet root to the floor.

He’s like a speed boat gliding over the ice. Except, instead of the curl of a white-tipped wake trailing him, there are sprays of shaved ice as he carves up the rink. Blaze is the perfect name. He moves like he’s got some kind of Matrix-hockey ability while everyone else plays the game on normal mode. The fact that he loves smoking weed and is incredibly hot are just a couple reasons no other name would fit.

This is into full-on staring territory now, but I’m still unmoving. I don’t know why I never noticed before, but hockey players are incredibly graceful. The weaving and darting over the ice, it’s almost a dance. Blaze is the star of the show, making it look effortless when I know for a fact that it is hard to do.

Sports in general have never come easy to me, but skating was one of the hardest things I ever tried. On a good day, gravity and I have been known to battle it out. What could make more sense than taking someone who’s naturally clumsy and trying to get them to balance on tiny little blades.