“An ass,” I finish for her.
Once we reach the parking garage, Bex removes a set of keys from her bag and clicks the remote to open her dad’s car.
She retrieves a men’s leather wallet from the cup holder. “I have to run this over to my dad. It won’t take long. Do you want to tag along? We can grab something to eat from the cafeteria afterward.”
My nose wrinkles in disgust. I hate eating in the cafeteria. They serve only junk and fried crap that ruins my mojo for basketball. And the last time I let someone talk me into going to the cafeteria, Drake knocked me on the floor and then acted like a pig.
“No, to cafeteria food. A definite hell yeah to sneaking a peek at the men’s ice hockey practice.”
“Awesome.” She shuts the door with a smile and locks the car. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to face the guys alone, especially not Preston.”
“Are you kidding me? As if you even had to ask.”
Because Drake will be there.
She chuckles. “Don’t act like this around the guys. Their egos are big enough.”
“Gotcha. Don’t feed the players,” I quip. “Duly noted.”
She shakes her head, entertained by my usual goofy comments. Someone has to lighten up the mood. Bex can be such a downer sometimes.
We reach the ice rink on the other side of campus five minutes later. Before we enter, I fix the dark strands falling in my face with my fingers. I look like a mess, my forehead coated in sweat and my hair a little frizzy from the unusual heat. I’m from Southern California and used to warmer weather, but not the humidity. Why is it so hot this late in the year?
I remove my pink gloss from the inner pocket of my bag and apply a thin layer to my lips, smacking them together loudly as I look over at Bex. She’s a real tomboy. Anything to do with makeup or hair scares the crap out of her. It’s as if she’s allergic to anything girly.
I turn to face Bex, greeted by a strange stare as she takes in my features. “How do I look?”
“Fine.” Her tone is devoid of emotion. “Stop worrying about your appearance. A guy should like you even on your worst day. Otherwise, he’s not worth your time.”
“I wish I could be more like you, Bex. You never care what anyone thinks of you.”
She shrugs. “It’s simple. People will either like you the way you are or hate you for it. You know what my dad says about opinions and assholes.”
Realizing she’s right, I laugh and open the door where hot hockey players practice on the other side. “I’ll try to find my inner Bex.”
Be like Bex, I chant a few times under my breath, mimicking the Be Like Mike slogan from Michael Jordan’s Gatorade commercial from the 90s.
“You’re the only girl I know who would show her face around a bunch of popular guys with a bloody lip and no makeup.”
Bex rolls her eyes. “I haven’t worn makeup since my dad made me wipe it off my face in my sophomore year of high school. Anyway, who cares if I busted my lip open? I wear it like a badge of honor. I wasn’t about to let Stacey Weaver get to the net.”
“Instead, you guarded her so hard she ended up dropping bows on you like you’re in the UFC.”
Laughter shakes through her. “Drop bows? You sound like a lunatic.”
“What? Haven’t you ever seen a spinning back elbow? It’s sweet. That’s basically what Stacy did to your face.”
My older brother, Shaun, loves the UFC. So do I. We learned everything from my dad, a retired United States Marine Corps Colonel. We moved to a new duty station every few years until I was in high school. Over the years, my dad trained Shaun and me in mixed martial arts and other defensive techniques.
“I hustled my ass off to become a starter this year,” Bex says. “I wasn’t about to punk out, allow her to make the easy layup, and show Coach Vaughn I wasn’t starting material.”
Bex is always so serious. God forbid anyone on our team who gets a leg up on her. For someone who has no plans to attempt a pro career, she takes winning way too seriously. We both love the game, but it’s just a game.
“It was just a scrimmage,” I tell her. “You can ease up. What if Preston tries to kiss you on Saturday, and he tastes blood? That’s not sexy.”
She shrugs, unaffected. “He’s a hockey player. I’m sure he’s used to the taste of blood in his mouth. And it’s not like I will kiss him.”
We stop in front of the outer edge of the ice, and our conversation comes to a halt. Once I get a load of the men on the ice before me, my eyes are as wide as my mouth that has fallen open. Bex looks equally taken back by the players. They’re so graceful on skates that they make basketball players look like idiots falling over their feet.
