Page 27 of Dangle

The chair I sat in scraped across the wood floors when I stood, grabbed my beer, and stomped off, heading for my favorite spot at EDGE: Nashville: the rooftop deck. I’d turned a disaster into an oasis before Ewen and I headed north. I wanted to do the same to the top of the old bank we bought for the club in Manchester, but the city planning committee and the historical society were being fucking cunts about it.

Flopping down in an Adirondack chair I built by hand, I chugged the beer I had in my hand, then cursed the fact I didn’t snatch a bucket from the island as I stalked past. Instead of going back inside where I was definitely the topic of conversation, I pinched and twisted my lips in thought.

If anyone lived in my head, they would’ve called it sulking, and they wouldn’t have been wrong, but no one lived up there, so I got to stew in my thoughts without commentary from the peanut gallery.

Was I enamored?

Yes.

Unequivocally.

Without a doubt.

But…

And this is a big ass but.

The boy was too damn young for me. Way too fucking young for me. I enlisted in the Marines before the boy started kindergarten.

How did I know?

I wasn’t stupid.

I Googled the little shit.

So…

Yes, I knew exactly who the fuck he was.

He had his own fucking Wikipedia page.

And if I had it memorized, sue me. No one but me knew how deep my fascination went.

Donald Malachek III.

Nickname: Trey

Only child of Donald Malachek II and Oksana Petrova.

Grandson of Donald Malachek and Linn Gustavvson

Grandson of Victor Petrov and Elena Volkova

Center for Team USA Men’s Hockey.

Olympic Gold Medalist.

First draft pick in the NHL Draft

Manchester University Maulers Captain

Clicking the links for his family members showed me his championship legacy ran deep. His father and grandfathers all played in the NHL, leading their teams to multiple Stanley Cups. His mom skated for the Soviet Union and then for Russia. Her mother was a ballerina for the Bolshoi, and his dad’s mom was a fucking model turned movie star.

We were so mismatched that even thinking about it was stupid. The ridiculousness of the matchup made up the vast majority of my embarrassment about how stuck on him I was.

A wet, cold bottle appeared before me. With a deep sigh, I took it, cracked it open, all without looking to see who had pulled the short straw.

Hawk lay down on my feet with a huff, and my head swung around to meet Alex’s gaze.