Because, yeah, after texting with Hunter all afternoon, I could officially admit it now: I've been played. Hunter was just anassholeall along, only interested in trying to get some ass.
But I was a person who needed this job,or something, and it would look hypocritical and weak if I quit my job now,because it didn't work out with Hunter the prick.
It all started when I texted him late that morning. “I had so much fun last night, Hunter. Thank you for an amazing night.”
His reply? “Lol.”
And, yes, laugh-out-loud seemed like an odd reaction. But I tried to not dwell on it—because, so often in text messages, one's true meaning gets lost.
But then Hunter continued. “I didn't.”
“Didn't what?” I asked him, and now Iknewsomething was wrong.
“DIDN'T HAVE FUN. Duh. Use your brain......”
I gasped, heart racing, and fired back: “What's wrong with you?”
“You're soooo annoying omg. I can't do it anymore Honor. I just wanted to get laid all along. Understand?? Great, thx, leave me alone now. Blocking your number! Bye forever.”
My jaw almost hit the floor.
Un. Fucking. Believable.
His whole attitude andeverythingchanged the minute he got what he wanted.
“You wanna block my number? You wanna blockmynumber?” I shouted aloud in my bedroom—and I blockedhisnumber first, before he could block mine. Two can play that stupid, childish game.
Cora was right about these guys,absolutelyright, and now I was kicking myself for not listening to her warning. Professional athletes? They were nothing more than dogs. As soon as I gave myself to Hunter, he lost interest, and was surely moving on to the next piece of ass.
And now, worst of all, I had to see him on the ice, while I acted like I was totallyso pumpedandpsychedto be there, and justoh so happyto be a smiling ice girl, bending over and shoveling snow, while thousands of people eyeballed me in my skimpy little outfit.
Aaaack.
***
I was happynotto see Rockwell on my way through the arena. I threw the girls' dressing room door open and stormed in.
Whatever gossip the girls were all giggling about suddenly went quiet. They kept their eyes glued on me as I went for my stall. Their twinkling eyes werevery amusedabout something, but I wasn't about to take the bait and ask.
I reached my stall and opened the locker. But instead of an ice girl's outfit dangling from the hanger, I was greeted by a men's Blizzard jersey. The rest of the locker was stuffed with shoulder pads and gloves and other hockey equipment.
Stifled laughter all around me.
I turned around slowly. “Okay. Where's my outfit?”
“It's right there, silly,” Madison answered.
I pulled the jersey from the hanger and held it up. The thing was enormous; the bottom hem nearly reached my knees. There wasno waythey wanted us to skate out there wearing those.
I turned the jersey around. The nameplate on the back readRockwell.I glanced up and caught Madison's eye.
“I thought after yourbrillianthockey performance in the commercial yesterday, you might feel more comfortable dressed in full hockey gear? Hell, maybe the team will let you play a shift … since you'resooogreat at hockey …”
Madison cackled, and the girls followed her lead.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Ha-ha. Honestly, Madison, I'm not really in the mood. Where's my outfit?”
Madison scowled. “You won't need it, sweetheart.”
