Page 4 of Hate to Love You

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Page 4 of Hate to Love You

How could it not?

Their tummies are flat and toned. Hips are nicely rounded. Tits jiggle enticingly as they saunter toward the bed where I’m currently sprawled.

I should be a man of steel over here. I haven’t gotten laid in three weeks. Which is almost unheard of. I haven’t gone that long without sex since I first started having it.

But there’s nothing.

Not even a twitch.

Which begs the question—What the hell is wrong with me?

It must be the stress of school and the skating regimen I’m on. Even though I’m already under contract with Milwaukee and don’t have to worry about the NHL draft later this year, I’m still under a lot of pressure to perform this season.

National Championships don’t bring themselves home.

I’d be concerned that I have some serious erectile dysfunction issues happening except there’s one chick who gets me hard every time I lay eyes on her. Rather ironically, she wants nothing to do with me. I think she’d claw my eyes out if I laid one solitary finger on her.

Actually, all I have to do is stare in her direction, and she bares her teeth at me.

Maybe these girls are exactly what I need to relieve some of my pent-up stress. It certainly can’t hurt.

Decision made, I slam my finance book closed and toss it to the floor where it lands with a loud thud. I fold my arms behind my head and smile at the girls in silent invitation.

And the rest, shall we say, is history.

Chapter Two

Natalie

I grit my teeth in silent aggravation.

Brody McKinnon and Kimmie Sanders are at it again.

I’ve spent the last twenty-five minutes listening to Kimmie giggle her way through class along with the hushed whispers of Brody McKinnon. These two make it impossible to concentrate on the material that will most assuredly be on next week’s exam.

For the hundredth time, I wonder how either of them are passing this class.

I almost snicker at the thought and shake my head. Well, I know exactly how Brody is passing. He’s the captain of the Whitmore Wildcats hockey team. Him attending class is purely for show. It’s doubtful he does any of the required work.

He’s more of a…pretty decoration.

Man candy for the ladies of Whitmore to fawn over.

Managerial Finance meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at ten o’clock in the morning at Brighton Hall, which is the business building on campus. It takes an extra-large caramel mocha to get through this class without coming unhinged and losing my shit on them. Since we don’t have assigned seating, I’m strategic about choosing a different desk each class session in the hope that Brody will park himself elsewhere. Preferably on the other side of the room where I can’t be distracted by the deep timbre of his voice.

He never does. Somehow, he always ends up right behind me. I swear he does it on purpose. Other than to mess with me, I have no idea why he would bother.

Whitmore is a private university where hockey reigns supreme. Not even football can compete with hockey at this school. Every year, there are a handful of players that end up drafted to the NHL. That alone makes Whitmore a premier school for rising hockey talent in the country and Canada.

I’m sure the university rakes in a ton of revenue from ticket sales and merchandising. Two years ago, they built a brand-new, state-of-the-art arena on campus. So, it goes without saying that the hockey players are treated like royalty around here.

It’s annoying, but you get used to it…after a while.

Or, like me, you simply ignore it.

Personally, I don’t understand all the fandemonium. It’s just a game. Sure, hockey is a fun spectator sport. The pace, the action, the adrenalin. It’s easy to get swept away by the frenzy. I’ll admit to enjoying my fair share of games during the three years I’ve attended Whitmore, but that doesn’t mean I understand the culture of hero worship that surrounds it. Nor am I one of these idiot girls who wants to sleep with as many of the guys on the team as I can.

Ummm…No, thank you. I enjoy being STD-free.




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