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

is waiting at our table, still not drinking and no clue what’s coming. Hopefully nothing else ends up coming…

“Hey,” I call out to Bambi. “Could you use the first couple songs to build up his confidence, maybe the first two and a half? Half of the last song is enough dancing.”

“You got it.” She knows all too well why I’m asking. Bambi doesn’t say goodbye before she walks away. Our transaction is over.

I walk back to the booth but don’t bother sitting. “Come on.” I motion for Rookie to get up.

“What?”

“Enough of the cheap seats. It’s time to go learn a thing or two in the front row.” I nod over to the long curve of barstools around the outside edge of the stage. Between each booth is a tiny table, not much wider than an armrest, to let your beer sit on.

“Naw, I’m good with the cheap seats.” He frowns, shaking his head.

“No way. You can’t learn shit from way back here. Let’s move up.” I start walking. Rookie reluctantly joins me. After I get another order in for more beer, he’s gotta go and bring up the killjoy in our lives. Again.

“Come on, Blaze. You wanna get booted for beer?”

I get what he's saying. But just because it’s logical, doesn't mean I’m going to listen. Why? No chick, especially not some uptight, ball-busting go-getter like Priscilla Stevens is going to stop me from enjoying my college years. It’s obvious she doesn’t know the first thing about fun. Just because she’s miserable doesn’t mean she can force me to be.

School used to be fun. It was parties, after-parties and watching sunrises in hotel hot tubs with bunnies. It was waking up surrounded by empties and stubbed out joints with a girl or two laying next to you in bed. It was enjoying the fucking moment because it all eventually goes away. And that’s what it did. It went away when Prissy got her job trying to clean up our team's image. I mean, your little porno gets fourteen million views, and everything goes to shit.

Tonight isn’t about viral, mascot-head sex tapes. It’s not about Prissy either. It’s about Rookie. I’m grateful when I take a drink and he doesn’t keep bitching about it. Maybe it’s because he’s gonna let it go. Maybe it’s because Bambi just walked on stage. I’m going with the second one.

Rookie barely blinks when she swirls around the pole. I think it’s fair to say this is his first strip club. She dances great, but Rookie is looking at her like she’s a prima ballerina dancing just for him in a naked ballet.

Strippers and ballerina’s make me think of Vitus, the Patron Saint of dancers. I can’t believe I still remember all of those random Patron Saints from back, in another lifetime, when I went to an all-boys Catholic School. Nothing like a bunch of hormonal teenage boys with no girls around to focus on. My friends and I studied up on all the random Saints out there. We’d try to drop them casually in class conversations. Anything to annoy the Sisters.

It’s been a few years, but I still remember that dentists have a Patron Saint called Apollina. My favorite was St. Drogo though, the Patron Saint of ugly people. I don’t remember a Patron Saint for virgin men, but if there isn’t one, I should get the title. That hundred bucks should score me ultimate wingman status… for eternity.

Bambi finishes her dance and walks over to us, zeroing in on Rookie. “What’s your deal? You’re not exactly my usual audience tonight.” She almost purrs at him. She flutters her long lashes and turns on the charm the same way the rest of us turn on a faucet. She’s miles away from the dead-eyed business lady I paid in the hall.

“Just stopped in for a drink.” Rookie is awkward as fuck. Why’s he staring at his hands of all places? This kid couldn’t have less game.

“Come have a drink with me. Over there.” She rolls her finger toward the booth we just came from.

Rookie’s eyes dart to me.

“Go have a drink.” I nudge him.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah. What have ya got to lose?”

“I don’t have any money.” Rookie pats his pockets like he thinks she’s gonna shake him down later.

“Good thing I’m not looking for any,” she answers breezily. “Come on.” Bambi grabs his hand and that’s it. Rookie looks like he might float over to that booth with stars in his eyes and a boner in his pants.

Watching him walk off with her puts a smile on my face. I lift the beer I haven’t started drinking yet, the one Rookie refused, and get a start on it. I should be fucking anointed. The bar hasn’t changed, but now there’s hope in the darkness. This is exactly the confidence boost the kid needs to get laid. Something good is going to come from this sad, Ghost-of-Christmas-Future strip club after all. It’s been a while since I’ve had a win, but this feels like one. I think I deserve to enjoy the joint in my pocket outside. I’ve earned it.

When I gaze over at the exit, I notice a chick marching across the bar. Fuck. I’d recognize that sexy, pinched look on her face anywhere. It’s Prissy. Priscilla hates her nickname, probably because it’s perfect, and she knows it… definitely because I came up with it.

How did she know I was here? Did she have me fucking microchipped? There’s no way Coach Wilson called her. It must have been His Royal fucking Majesty, and ultimate roommate back stabber, Player.

Her hips roll with every angry stride she takes toward me. Anger flashes in her dark eyes and flush her cheeks with a tinge of red. Her lips are clamping in a mouth full of lecture that she’s about to unleash. I bring my beer to my lips and watch her storm over all worked up and sexy.

I wonder what she looks like in bed.

“Seriously?” Prissy walks right up to