BLAZE: Enemies to Lovers College Hockey Romance by Eddie Cleveland (ebook reader macos .txt) 📕

“I’m going to leave my coat here to save my seat, but can you keep an eye on it?”

The hot mom looks me over. Women over forty tend to love me or hate me. I think it’s the beard and tattoos. I’m either the wild guy they wish they ran off with, or the guy they are afraid their daughter will bring home someday. There is no in between.

Crinkles form around her blue eyes, and she smiles. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll make sure no one touches it.” She sits a bit taller, and she looks like she just got a triple espresso caffeine injection.

“Thanks.” I look her in the eyes and see a sparkle in hers. I give her a quick wink. Well, it’s not to her. It’s to the wild woman locked inside her soul. Her smile grows as I stand up.

“Yeah, if anyone even thinks about stealing your seat or your jacket, I’ll throw hands.” One of the twins puffs up in the chest.

“Oh my God, Brody. You’re not even tough. Please stop.” The sister seems to be at the age where embarrassment feels deadly.

I leave the seats and the rink behind me, but I can’t get out to the hall. A bunch of guys wearing Beta Frappa Chai, or whatever their house name is, on their ball caps block the way. They’re trying to figure out where they can get seats to sit together.

“Holy shit, bro. That suit is sick.” The guys from the Greek life all turn and look.

“Whoa, digging the eighties vibes.”

“Hey, aren’t you on the team?”

I don’t know any of these guys. They seem to know who I am though.

“Yeah, I’m working on it. I got a suspension.”

“For that porno?” the guy that towers over everyone else and has acne scars across his cheek asks.

“Yeah.”

“Dude, I’ve got that shit saved to my favorites.”

“I am a Warrior!” A little guy built like a brick house imitates my famous line from the porn, and everyone laughs. Even me.

“Anyway, let this absolute fucking legend through, and let’s get our seats.” A skinny guy with shaggy hair cuts in, and everyone listens. I walk to the locker room to see the guys before they play.

Prissy isn’t gonna like this, but what can she do? It’s a three-piece suit. My silk tie is sharp, knotted with a half-Windsor. My shoes have a fresh coat of polish on them. I’m not wearing some costume store, off-rack purchase. This baby is custom tailored, snug fit.

I’m following all her rules to a T.  If she doesn’t like the fabric, that’s a personal problem. Hot pink with banana-yellow pinstripes isn't everyone's taste in fashion, but I make this shit look good.

My parents have reminded me many times over the years that I don’t get this rebellious streak from them. They like to blame genetics. My Dad’s brother is usually held up as proof of this theory. According to my folks, I’m just like him.

From what I’ve heard about him, back in the day, it wouldn't shock me if I turned out to be his lovechild. If I didn’t know my mom better, I’d wonder. The family story that comes up the most at dinners is the time Uncle Rod was moving out of some sketchy apartment, back when he was fresh out of college.

Out of all my parent’s siblings, Rod has always been a hands-down favorite. Nothing against my Aunt Margorie or Auntie Jean, but my uncle was just way more fun. The best kind of fun too. I learned all the best swear words from him. Not just the standard fucks and shits, but the creative stuff. Why call someone a shit when shitstain is so much worse? Most guys don’t care if you call them a douche, but douche-nozzle is a whole different level.

There’s no doubt that Rod was probably a shitstain of a tenant. When he tells the story, he swears up and down there was zero damage to the apartment though. When he moved all his stuff out into the moving van, he says it looked good. There might have been a couple scuffs or light scratches, but that’s just normal wear and tear.

His landlord didn’t see it that way. Rod went to get the unit inspected so he could get his damage deposit back, but the guy wouldn’t return his money. Apparently, it was written into the fine print of the rental agreement that he had to put a fresh coat of paint on the ceiling and every wall.

My uncle was fuming, but he agreed to do it. He asked the guy to hook him up with the supplies. He wasn’t about to go buy a bunch of paint and brushes and all that shit. When his landlord refused to lend them to him, that’s when he really lost it.

He put a fresh coat of paint on every wall and the ceiling. In black. Malicious compliance, just like this suit.

I strut into the locker room to a bunch of catcalls and whistles. “That’s right, soak it in boys.” I turn around like I hit the end of the runway. Everyone is laughing. I’m not causing any harm, but Player grits his teeth. He’s pissed.

When isn’t he? I ignore the glare. Rookie gives my tie a tug. “Well, she can’t be pissed about that. It’s not a clip on.”

The guys are mostly dressed. There’s a few jersey’s missing, but other than that, they’re ready to go.

Canuck walks across the rubber mat on his skates. The blades make him taller than me for once. “I forgot you had this.” He laughs. “Awesome.”

“Is it weird that it suits him?” Gucci stays seated on the bench. “Like, in the right club, you could pull that off unironically. Just walk in like some baller pimp from the seventies…”

“Blaze, Miami Vice called. They want their suit back,” Rookie cuts in.

Everyone is laughing. Almost everyone. Player doesn’t even crack a smile. “Why are you in here?” His anger