Shut Out (Bayard Hockey #1)(36)

“That chicken was atrocious,” I say as we do the dishes.

“Yeah, it was.” Nat meets my eyes and we burst out laughing. “But you tried. Live and learn, right? We should do this every Sunday night. We could take turns cooking.”

“I like that idea.”

We agree that Natalie will go next week, then Brooklyn, then Ella. Hopefully their meals will be better than mine.

Up in my room, first I go online and reread the recipe I just made. Damn. I could’ve added a little sugar to the vinegar, instead of using balsamic vinegar. I sigh. Ah well.

Then I pick up my cellphone and pull up Jacob’s number. Should I text or call? Probably an apology should be delivered via phone call, if not in person. So I call him.

I get his voicemail. You’ve got the Flash. Leave a message.

I roll my eyes. The Flash. “Hi, Flash. It’s me, Rapunzel. I…” I pull a quick breath in and out. “I just called to say I’m sorry.” Crap, I think that’s the name of some old song. “I think I inadvertently insulted you last night. I didn’t mean to. You’re a talented hockey player and I’m sure you’ve worked super hard to get where you are. I wasn’t demeaning your…your sport. Or career. I was frustrated.” I pause. “That’s all. So, anyway…yeah. Bye.”

I end the call and drop my phone on my bed. Okay. There. Done. I can feel better now.

Except I don’t.

I spend the evening with Intro to Research Methods (psychology) and by ten o’clock I’m in bed. Wide awake.

My phone warbles.

It’s a weird sound because I get so few actual phone calls. I blink into the darkness, then toss back the covers and scramble out of bed. I dash over to the dresser, where my phone is plugged in.

The screen tells me it’s Jacob.

My hands tremble a little as I quickly tap the screen to answer. “Hello.”

“Rapunzel.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah.”

“I got your message.”

“Okay, good.”

“Thanks for that. And I’m sorry too.”

I press my lips together, my heart beating fast.

“I was a dick,” he says quietly. “I was in a bad mood. I wasn’t listening to you.”

I unplug the phone and take the three steps to my bed to sink down onto the edge. “Why were you in a bad mood?”

“Long story.” He pauses. “D’you think your hair has magical healing properties?”

I choke. “What?”

“Like in the movie Tangled.”

“You’ve seen Tangled?” Then I shake my head. “Are you drunk?”

He gives a low laugh that slides into my ear. “Maybe a little.”

“Jacob.”

“Sunday’s our day off. I did laundry. With only minimal supervision.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Good for you.”

“It’s an important skill. Sadly, I never really learned it.”

“Who was supervising?”

“Buck. He’s pretty good at it. I guess you have to be when you spend as much on clothes as he does. His jeans cost a hundred bucks.”

“Holy crap.”

“Yeah. So you have to separate the whites from the darks.”

My smile broadens. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

“And not everything goes in the dryer.”

“Why are we talking about laundry?”

“Hey, it’s a significant accomplishment.”

“Okay, true.”

There’s a silence that stretches out and isn’t weird. Finally, Jacob says, “I’ll see you Wednesday.”

At the fundraiser planning meeting. “Right.”

“You forgive me for being a dick?”

“Yes. If you forgive me for being a bitch.”

“You’re not a bitch. You’re Rapunzel. And I love your hair.”

“Thank you.” My heart swells up.

“Night, gorgeous.”

“Good night, Flash.”

I plug my phone back in and climb into bed. And now I can go to sleep.

—

I know the minute Jacob enters the meeting room on Wednesday afternoon. The air changes, becomes energized. He rushes in as if he’s running late, commanding attention with just his presence and an easy smile. But he focuses on me. “Hi, Skylar.”

“Hi.”

His hair’s a little damp, as if he just got out of the shower, and his high cheekbones wear a healthy flush.

I introduce Jacob to the others and we get to work planning the pizza fundraiser. After the meeting ends, Jacob hangs back while everyone else leaves. I shut down my laptop, then slide it into the padded case. Then we’re alone.

“Thanks for helping with the fundraiser.”

“No problem. My schedule’s crazy but I’ll fit it in.”

He stands near me and I can smell his body wash, the spicy fragrance familiar to me. I want to press my nose against the side of his neck and breathe in the scent of his skin.

“I have a night class at seven,” he says. “Want to get something to eat with me?”

“Do you need a fake girlfriend for that?”

One corner of his mouth deepens. “Yeah.”