Page 64 of Lovefool

I sit on the bench. The spectators around me are irate, screaming obscenities and throwing perfectly good concessions into the air.

Lake bangs on the fingerprint-smeared plexiglass. “Are you fucking crazy?!” she screeches.

I shrug, smiling like an idiot. “He deserved it.”

“That’s beside the point! You knocked his teeth out!”

Even when she’s berating me, I can’t help but fall into those mesmerizing eyes of hers—oceanic whirlpools that deepen into teal-gradated betrayal.

“You looked lonely. I wanted to sit next to you.”

Lake inhales shakily, pressing the heel of her palm into her forehead. “Sutton, you could’ve just cost the Mustangs the whole game.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got this. Plus, you’re worth it.”

23

A POST-VICTORY CELEBRATION

LAKE

Sutton Whittaker is the biggest idiot on the planet.

But he’s my idiot.

I irrigate the bloody lacerations on his knuckles with a saline solution—thank you, stocked locker room bathroom—and a growl ripples through his throat at the initial burn.

If I wasn’t adamant about treating his wounds, he’d probably avoid getting them checked out until infection began to germinate. I feel like I’m plucking out a tiny thorn from a giant lion’s paw—a mere inconvenience for the grizzled powerhouse sitting before me.

Sutton is one of those people who don’t like to be a bother. It doesn’t matter if he’s actively bleeding out. He’s considerate in that way. Funny, seeing as his height and overall demeanor screams “intimidating.” He certainly didn’t disprove people’s expectations of him tonight.

I’d never admit this out loud, but a part of me was giddy when I saw Buford go down for the count. Call me a vengeful bitch, but he deserved what was coming to him. Maybe he’ll think twice about fucking people over. Buford was never a looker in the first place, but he’ll certainly be blacklisted by every sorority after resembling a putrefied pear.

Speaking of, before everyone exited the rink, I saw him talking to some dude. I have no idea who he was, but I kept close track of all of Buford’s “friends” when we were together. And this man seemed way over the typical age limit of his affiliates.

Not that I care who he hangs out with. It just seemed odd.

“You were reckless tonight,” I tell Sutton, dabbing the gouges in his skin with sterile gauze.

“I did what I had to,” he grumbles, refusing to meet my eyes, tension swimming in the air and intercut with the occasional sawed breath. This whole conversation is a no-fly zone for him.

“During the regional finals?”

His arm twitches when I accidentally abrade the wound edge, yet he refuses to acknowledge the pain. My patience is draining into a reservoir by the second, and I take his silence as an unofficial answer, squirting a dollop of petroleum jelly into my palm so I can keep the gashes moist.

I’m not mad at him, not really. I’m just…I can’t stand the thought of me potentially jeopardizing his hockey career. Sutton has improved my life in ways I didn’t think were remotely possible, and all I’ve done is bring a fuckload of trouble into his.

“This was an important game for you and your team.”

Sutton snorts. “We still won. The guys know what they’re doing. If anything, Buford was a liability.”

My ribs flutter with a latent sigh and, cautiously, I hook my index finger under Sutton’s chin, turning his head so he finally faces me. His pupils are blown wide, and the tips of his ears are red from embarrassment. His lower lip is jutted out in an irresistible pout.

“I’m not worth this much trouble,” I whisper, fanning my thumb over his chin.

My stupid hormones need to take a number and fucking sit down because I’m suddenly reminded of how soft his face felt between my thighs while he split me open with his tongue.

He leans into my touch. I’ve always been a sucker for sad eyes, but Sutton’s are haunting. So many contradictory emotions froth in my belly—guilt, relief, gratification. If he ruined his hockey career because of me, I’d never forgive myself.