boyfriend’s football teammates razz
my boyfriend that his girlfriend is now head cheerleader for the hockey team. He’ll never hear the end of
it if some “helpful” (aka: skanky) girl from our school snaps a picture of me
in the enemy’s camp—and plasters it all over our school’s social media
(which, unfortunately, I can’t put past most of the “helpful” girls at our
school—that want my boyfriend. Big time.)
“Wait, wait, WAIT!” Nina insists.
“I have to get this one guy’s autograph—I have to.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
“Which guy?” I scrunch up my brow. “You know a guy from that snooty
prep-school—Madison Heights?”
The la-dee-da private school just
barely sank to our school district’s level and started to participate in our
sports programs. I didn’t know a soul from the school—and I had assumed
Nina didn’t either.
But she nods, confirming I’m not
quite up on my boy-crazy friend.
I blink. “You know a hockey player
from Madison Heights?”
She nods again. “I do. Well,
anyway, I want to. He’s absolutely
dreamy. I met him at his school’s charity carnival. I took my little cousin
there, and the hot dreamy hockey player was working in a booth.” She smiles
sheepishly, “—a kissing booth.”
With a loud laugh, I groan. “Are
you kidding me?”
“No.” She puts her hands on her
hips, trying to sound offended and haughtily dignified (though she’s just
playing), “It was for charity!”
I laugh again. “How much did you
spend for the charity?”
“A lot ,” she says.
Yeah, I’m kind of getting that
impression from the way she has turned all love-struck and breathless ever
since she laid eyes on that hockey table.
The guy must have been some kisser.
I sigh. “Nina, we can’t get in line
for a rival school’s autograph. I’ll be burned at the stake.”
“Okay, well, I’m not going to get ‘ their’ autograph—only Darius’s.”
I freeze at the name.
All the air whooshes out of me and
prickles race down my spine.
When I can finally manage to form
words, I choke out, “Darius?”
“Yeah, the dreamy guy I kissed, a thousand times—Darius Michaels.”
I swallow, trying to get control of
my racing heart before I dare look over at the guy. Because I know it can’t be
him— my Darius. It can’t …
right?
I mean, my Darius is named Darius Night . And he lives somewhere far, far
away. I mean, he has to. Or he would have come to see me—often.
Plus, well, it’s not the same last name. So, face it:
it’s insane to get so worked up over a name. I mean, sure, my Darius was a
super-star on the ice … but come on—it’s not the same last name.
It’s just the name,
Darius—any time I hear it I go a little crazy.
And that’s what I’m doing
now—going a little crazy.
So I swallow down my insane
anticipation, and brace myself for disappointment as I finally dare peek over
at the table.
But then—oh my gosh!!!
My heart slams against my ribcage.
I grab the counter for support.
Because it’s him—it’s my Darius!
My heart thumping wild, I watch him
in astonished awe as he signs a puck for a little boy, his dark hair falling
over his gorgeous dark eyes as he hunches over the table, listening to the
boy’s excited chatter as he signs the boy’s puck, his tiny smile amused as the
boy gushes on and on enthusiastically to his rugged hero.
I stare at grown-up Darius in a
trance, unable to breathe.
Of course when Nina had said the
name Darius—of course my first thought was him. But I didn’t truly
believe it was possible. Because it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.
… yet here he is right in front of
me, smiling his beautiful smile as his little groupie rambles on and on to him energetically
about hockey.
Without a word, I abruptly grab a
puck from the bin.
Nina gushes out a laugh. “I take it
you like?”
She waves a hand in front of my
face as I continue to stare at Darius.
“Hello!” she
my boyfriend that his girlfriend is now head cheerleader for the hockey team. He’ll never hear the end of
it if some “helpful” (aka: skanky) girl from our school snaps a picture of me
in the enemy’s camp—and plasters it all over our school’s social media
(which, unfortunately, I can’t put past most of the “helpful” girls at our
school—that want my boyfriend. Big time.)
“Wait, wait, WAIT!” Nina insists.
“I have to get this one guy’s autograph—I have to.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
“Which guy?” I scrunch up my brow. “You know a guy from that snooty
prep-school—Madison Heights?”
The la-dee-da private school just
barely sank to our school district’s level and started to participate in our
sports programs. I didn’t know a soul from the school—and I had assumed
Nina didn’t either.
But she nods, confirming I’m not
quite up on my boy-crazy friend.
I blink. “You know a hockey player
from Madison Heights?”
She nods again. “I do. Well,
anyway, I want to. He’s absolutely
dreamy. I met him at his school’s charity carnival. I took my little cousin
there, and the hot dreamy hockey player was working in a booth.” She smiles
sheepishly, “—a kissing booth.”
With a loud laugh, I groan. “Are
you kidding me?”
“No.” She puts her hands on her
hips, trying to sound offended and haughtily dignified (though she’s just
playing), “It was for charity!”
I laugh again. “How much did you
spend for the charity?”
“A lot ,” she says.
Yeah, I’m kind of getting that
impression from the way she has turned all love-struck and breathless ever
since she laid eyes on that hockey table.
The guy must have been some kisser.
I sigh. “Nina, we can’t get in line
for a rival school’s autograph. I’ll be burned at the stake.”
“Okay, well, I’m not going to get ‘ their’ autograph—only Darius’s.”
I freeze at the name.
All the air whooshes out of me and
prickles race down my spine.
When I can finally manage to form
words, I choke out, “Darius?”
“Yeah, the dreamy guy I kissed, a thousand times—Darius Michaels.”
I swallow, trying to get control of
my racing heart before I dare look over at the guy. Because I know it can’t be
him— my Darius. It can’t …
right?
I mean, my Darius is named Darius Night . And he lives somewhere far, far
away. I mean, he has to. Or he would have come to see me—often.
Plus, well, it’s not the same last name. So, face it:
it’s insane to get so worked up over a name. I mean, sure, my Darius was a
super-star on the ice … but come on—it’s not the same last name.
It’s just the name,
Darius—any time I hear it I go a little crazy.
And that’s what I’m doing
now—going a little crazy.
So I swallow down my insane
anticipation, and brace myself for disappointment as I finally dare peek over
at the table.
But then—oh my gosh!!!
My heart slams against my ribcage.
I grab the counter for support.
Because it’s him—it’s my Darius!
My heart thumping wild, I watch him
in astonished awe as he signs a puck for a little boy, his dark hair falling
over his gorgeous dark eyes as he hunches over the table, listening to the
boy’s excited chatter as he signs the boy’s puck, his tiny smile amused as the
boy gushes on and on enthusiastically to his rugged hero.
I stare at grown-up Darius in a
trance, unable to breathe.
Of course when Nina had said the
name Darius—of course my first thought was him. But I didn’t truly
believe it was possible. Because it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.
… yet here he is right in front of
me, smiling his beautiful smile as his little groupie rambles on and on to him energetically
about hockey.
Without a word, I abruptly grab a
puck from the bin.
Nina gushes out a laugh. “I take it
you like?”
She waves a hand in front of my
face as I continue to stare at Darius.
“Hello!” she
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