Page 84 of Offensive Plays

“Nothing, O-zone. Nothing is going on. Let’s just play.” I get into position and he does too.

It’s true. Nothing is going on… lately. But I’m going to make sure that changes tonight.

We lose.

Which means the Heatwave players will retreat to their rooms to sulk and sleep before our flight home in the morning.

I’m the first one off the ice and I storm into the locker room kicking off my skates and slipping into my slides without even changing. I have one thing on my mind.

To find Libby.

I catch her talking to Rina in the hallway. Her purse is already on her shoulder and when she sees me storming toward her, she rolls her neck back looking irritated.

“Excuse me, Rina. I need to chat with Libby for a bit,” I take her by the arm and drag her along with me.

"What is wrong with you?" she hisses.

"You, Libby. You're what's wrong with me."

I look around frantically and find a door nearby labeled kitchen. I grab her hand and push it open, bringing her in with me.

The lights are off, so it must not be in use.

"I'm done, Libby. I'm done pretending like the things you say don't bother me. Like whatever this is isn't messing with my head."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she moves to push open the door, and I block the exit. She crosses her arms and glares at me with those eyes dripping of honey.

"Libby, enough. You're not leaving until you tell me what I need to do to make this work. You don't understand what you're doing to me."

"And that's somehow my fault?" she scoffs.

"Yes! I can't think. I can't play. I can't do anything without being interrupted by thoughts of you!”

"You're ridiculous. We. Don't. Work," she says, exasperated.

"Fine," I throw my hands up. "We don't work. Is that what you want from me? To admit that this might be the biggest mistake either of us can make? It is. It's reckless and stupid and selfish. But god, woman. I don't care. Screw what everyone else might think."

She looks around the kitchen. Possibly for another escape, but I reach for her wrist and pull her to me. She softens under my touch and finally meets my gaze. "I'm not your ideal guy. And I get that—“

"It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"It's that…” she hesitates.

“Tell me,” I urge her.

“It’s that you're everything I've ever wanted. And everything I've told myself I would never have. You're hot. And funny. And stupidly kind."

What is happening right now?

"Wow, please keep telling me all the ways I'm so wrong for you," I say sarcastically.

"And you deserve to be with someone who will cherish that and not question it. I'm... messed up," she says, her eyes traveling down to the floor and staring at her feet.

I grab her chin and force her to look up at me. "Now you're being ridiculous."

"You deserve a woman who cooks, and cleans, and can bake something for your family's fancy dinners. One that your mom will gush over and be excited to welcome into the family. You won't get that with me. I'm not like your family, Michael. If that isn’t obvious.”