Page 43 of Rival Season
“No, we just have great taste,” I reply as I throw a giant bag of popcorn into the cart for good measure. Then, I grin at Fisher. “And speaking of great taste, should we get mac and cheese to make for lunch?”
“Hell yes.”
We all take our jobs as athletes seriously and look after our bodies, paying close attention to our nutrition, but Fisher and I aren’t as strict with our diets full time as Noah is, so this morning, we’re taking advantage of not having the health police—AKA Noah—shopping with us for once. There were only about ten things on the grocery list Noah gave us, but we’ve been adding all kinds of forbidden processed snacks to our haul. Hence the overflowing cart.
We stop in the pasta aisle next, and as Fisher looks for the mac and cheese, I spot a selection of Alfredo sauces. Remembering Hazel said her favorite food was fettuccine Alfredo, I grab a couple of jars on a whim. I haven’t attempted to make pasta since the day Hazel got mad at me and Cassie for being too loud, but maybe I could give it another try. Cook for Hazel after she’s had a busy day…and then kiss her again.
I’m not sure what gave me the balls to kiss her in public like that last night—maybe the high of scoring a game-winning goal—but the second my lips met hers, all I could think about is how much time I’ve wastednotkissing her since we’ve been fake dating.
The little gasp she made when my lips met hers did something to my brain chemistry, and now that I know how good she tastes, I want more. Which means I need to conjure up another excuse to get to do it again. And again.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Penn Matthews, the man of the hour,” a nasally drawl comes from behind me, popping my sexy Hazel thoughts like a balloon.
I turn around to find Chad-dick Weatherby standing in the aisle, holding a wire grocery basket. The guy has a habit of just appearing everywhere he’s not wanted lately, like a little weasel. He’s not using his crutches anymore—he has a boot on one leg now—and his slicked back hair is as oily as the smile he’s currently aiming at me. “That was quite the spectacle last night.”
He’s obviously talking about the kiss, not the goal I scored, but I play dumb and smile.
“Thanks, Weatherby,” I say cheerfully. “Didn’t realize you were a fan. Did you want me to sign your boot for you?”
Beside me, Fisher snorts a laugh, and Chadwick’s smug expression slides off his face as his eyes land on my roommate.
“You’re Archibald Fisher,” he says smoothly, offering his hand. “Don’t think we’ve officially met off the ice. I’m Chadwick Weatherby.”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
Ever since I had the displeasure of attending high school with him back in Calgary, Chadwick has been the human embodiment of every negative hockey stereotype. He was always a rich, elitist prick of a kid who was good on the ice mostly due the privilege of one-on-one coaching, expensive training camps, and private hockey academies since he was old enough to walk.
It’s not that I find his privilege in itself a problem—Fisher was also born filthy rich but he’s actually a good person—it’s that Weatherby always treated anyone less wealthy like they were beneath him. He made it clear he believed scholarship kids likeme didn’t belong in hockey, and sucked up to anyone he saw as more elite or highbrow. Case in point: because Fisher’s family is famously rich and aristocratic, right now Chadwick’s seeking his approval…despite the fact that Fisher is friends with the enemy.
But instead of shaking Chadwick’s outstretched hand, Fisher shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Yes, I’m aware who you are,” he says to Chadwick, who preens…but then Fisher grins deviously and adds, “Hazel told us all about you.”
Chadwick looks at me with triumph in his eyes before turning back to my roommate. “She told you that we dated for a year?”
“No.” Fisher smirks. “She told us she destroyed your signed Gretzky jersey after you cheated on her.”
I like to think of myself as a pretty nice guy in general, but I’m not going to lie, I get immense satisfaction watching as Chadwick’s face falls at Fisher’s taunts.
He collects himself quickly, though, waving a hand like he doesn’t care—even though he clearly does. “I’ll get another one. And I must say, I was shocked at first when Hazel did that because it was quite out of character for a nice girl like her. But then I found out she’d been slumming it with Matthews here and her sudden violent behavior made more sense.” He looks at me pointedly. “Clearly, you’ve been teaching her the Matthews’ family way of handling things, and now she's taking a leaf out of that idiot Mike Smith’s playbook and turning a blind eye to all of your bad behavior instead of sending you packing like you deserve.”
Chadwick’s right, in a way. Coach Smith gave me way more than I deserved. Let me keep my spot on our high school team when guys like Chadwick and his father were calling for me to be expelled. But just as I didn’t deserve the second chance I was given, Chadwick doesn’t deserve to sayanythingabout Hazel. Not after how he treated her.
“Or maybe it turns out you don’t know Hazel that well, and you never did,” I say calmly. “Maybe if you’d taken the time to get to know her properly when you were dating instead of sleeping with half of California behind her back, you wouldn’t have lost her.” I grin. “I should thank you, really. Because your loss is my gain.”
I expect Chadwick to bristle, but he surprises me by laughing. “Oh, I know Hazel,” he says. “And I know you two aren’t a match. She’s quiet and studious. Honestly, she can be a bit of a yawn, but she’s got class—unlike that trashy ex of yours from high school.”
This time, I don’t stop my eyes from rolling. “Such a nice thing to say about someone you hooked up with.”
“Exactly. Hooked up with. Guys like me, we might spend a night or two with girls like Tori when we’re bored or need a little fun, but wedateclassygirls like Hazel who have the right image.” He smiles, then gives Fisher a conspiratorial nod. “Fisher gets it.”
Fisher’s face goes slack with disbelief. “Fisher most definitely doesnotget it, you pretentious prick,” he practically snarls.
“Guys like Matthews do not date girls like Hazel,” Chadwick bulldozes on, undeterred. “You end up with the Tori-types of this world…when we’re done having our fun with them, of course.”
Fisher’s jaw tics, his face turning red, but I give him a look, silently telling him it's not worth it. Rage is rising up in me, too, but I know to ignore it. Chadwick’s being an elitist douche and talking shit right now, but taking his bait goes nowhere good. So instead of getting mad, I fix Hazel’s ex with a cool stare. “Yet here we are, Weatherby. One of usisdating Hazel....and it’s not you.”
Chadwick shakes his head, the stubborn ass. “Someday soon, she’s going to come to her senses and throw you out on yourass when she sees you for the trash you really are. Just like Tori did…right before she came running to me.”
