A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(11)

So here I am.

Patching the wall.

I lean back, satisfied that the new drywall is even and flush to the wall, and climb down off the ladder to assess it from the floor. My head bobs once approvingly, and I flip my ball cap around so the brim is back in the front, fold up the ladder, and start hauling everything back into the basement of the house.

“You gonna be at the rink tonight?” One of my roommates, Weston McGrath, asks from his position in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter, making a giant sandwich as I pound up the back staircase in my heavy work boots, and licking mustard off his thumb as he watches me close the basement door then lock it behind me.

“Yeah, probably. But first I have to run back to the store and grab some sandpaper. I need to get that spackled hole in the foyer smooth before I can paint it.” I walk past him to the fridge and retrieve a bottle of water, twist the cap, and swallow half of it before turning back to face him.

Casually, I lean against the counter, surveying the mess he’s made as he slaps a giant blob of mayonnaise on two thick slices of bread, followed by cheddar cheese, tomato, lettuce, and chicken.

A few pickle slices, more lettuce, and some jalape?os.

Ham.

Condiments are all over the counter, and a head of lettuce has been wacked in half with a butcher knife I didn’t even know we had in the house.

He’s made a giant f*cking mess, considering it’s just one sandwich.

And did I mention he’s only wearing underwear?

Weston lovingly holds up the sandwich like it’s the Stanley Cup, crushing it between his two palms so it will fit in his mouth, then takes a huge bite. Slowly he chews, making both moaning and groaning sounds as he does it.

It sounds like he’s on the receiving end of one fantastic blowjob.

“Dude.” I can’t help but laugh, stepping forward to snag a piece of chicken. “Sandwich can’t be that good.”

He wipes his mouth on his arm and grins. “No, but it’s pretty damn close.” Lettuce falls onto his bare chest.

“If Molly heard you moaning, she’d be jealous.”

“Naw, my girl doesn’t get jealous. She knows she’s got this shit locked down,” he jokes, jamming the sandwich back into his face. He literally has to crush it against his mouth to take a bite.

I’m not really sure how to respond to that, so I cross my arms and wait for him to swallow. “What time you going tonight?”

He swallows before responding. “Er. Around six, I think. I can’t be out late. I have an exam tomorrow. We have that damn exposition game against Michigan on Thursday.” Weston shrugs. “I need more time on the ice than I’ve gotten in practice.”

“Yeah, alright. I can meet you there if you want me in the box.”

“You know…” His voice trails off and he clears his throat uncomfortably. “Coach was asking about you yesterday.” Weston watches from the corner of his eye even as he takes the second half of his giant sandwich off the white dinner plate.

I nod slowly. Hesitantly. “Yeah? What did he say?”

“He just asked where your head was at, and if you’re ready for the season to start, because you seem so… out of it during practice. But he brought me into his office to do it, so you know it wasn’t just him being polite.”

No. Coach isn’t polite. He’s a colossal *.

I don’t respond, instead nodding again, bowing my head a little, and removing my ball cap briefly to run my fingers through my hair.

Wes shifts uneasily. “I’m not telling you this to pressure you. I just wanted to let you know that we’re all pumped for the new season to start, and we can’t afford to have you benched. Haggerty is a piece-of-shit goaltender, even for a second stringer, and everyone knows it.”

Yeah, I’ve noticed.

Zack Haggerty, the rookie goalie who subs my spot in the event of an injury, killed the team’s stats the one time last season I was out with mono, and I still can’t help feeling responsible.

“You know I’ve been busting my ass in practice. Of course I’m f*cking ready for the season to start.” I shake my head, irritated. Just because I’m not like my obnoxiously extroverted teammates does not mean my head isn’t in the game.

“Six tonight, you said?”

He confirms with a nod, his shaggy brown hair falling in his eyes. Dude needs a haircut.

“Alright. Yeah, I’ll be in the net for you.”

“Sweet, thanks, Showtime.” He stuffs another hunk of bread in his gullet and swallows, extending the sandwich toward me. With a face full of mayonnaise and meat hanging from his mouth, he asks, “You want a bite?”

Shaking my head, I walk over and smack him on the back with a grin. “No way, man. I’ll catch you later, though.”





Abby

Why is it that every time you run into a store like Wal-Mart for something simple, you always end up finding way more stuff than you actually need?

You know what I’m talking about. Walking in to buy something—let’s use milk, shampoo, or paper towels as an example here—but end up spending fifty dollars on random crap that you had no need for. Or no intention of buying. For example, a new magazine, tank top, or that tube of onyx mascara you only bought because it’s never on sale and you finally get to save forty whole cents.