BOYS TO THE YARD

CALISTA

Islurp on my well-earned vanilla milkshake, purposefully cranking up the noisiness as Gage stares at me from across the table. A double cheeseburger, two large fries, a twenty-piece box of chicken nuggets, and a stack of chocolate chip cookies all sit in front of me, which isn’t my usual go-to dinner after class, but hey, the idiot was paying.

Even though I doubt I’d want anything Gage has to offer me, I couldn’t say no to a free meal. I can’t believe he found my studio and wants my help.

None of this feels real. And no, not because he’s some “world-famous”

hockey player, but because I was expecting the next time I saw him to be from behind a glass partition in prison.

I’m surprised he didn’t sue me—and even more surprised that now he’s trying to be buddy-buddy with me.

I pluck a fry from my basket and swirl it around in the frothy layer of my shake before popping it in my mouth. “Why are you staring at me?”

He blinks as if he hadn’t realized he was doing it, discreetly rubbing the redness smudging his cheeks. “Maybe it’s because you’re manhandling your food like some kind of he-man.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was a proper dinner. Would you like me to eat my burger with a fork and a knife?”

“You can start by slowing down and closing your mouth when you chew.”

I pointedly stuff a few more fries past my lips, chewing even louder. “If you’d stop interrupting my dinner, I wouldn’t need to open my mouth and talk. Sue me for being hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

For some big, bad hockey player, Gage looks particularly small in the booth, or maybe that’s just because his stupidly big head has deflated since our spat in the rink. Realistically, he has to be between six one and six two, and yes, I may have called him a hobgoblin, but I’m not blind. I can acknowledge a man’s attractiveness without being attracted to him. And in no universe would I ever consider swapping spit with Gage Arlington. I’m guessing it’s a cesspool of STDs in there.

I hate that I know his last name. I hate that I hate-stalked him after our fight. I hate that he’s shoved his way back into my life even though I’ve tried to squash his memory like the loathsome little cockroach he is.

It’s a cruel kind of hate too. Maybe even the cruelest.

Annoyance looms over his features, though I’m not sure if it’s because of my disagreeableness or my messed-up eating schedule. “Maybe you should take better care of your body.”

I pick up the half-wedge of my burger as grease splashes onto the stained wrapper. “Didn’t hear any complaints when you were staring at my tits earlier.”

This endless tug-of-war seems to be awakening some malevolent side of me that I never realized I had. If dancing doesn’t work out, maybe I should become a dominatrix so I can humiliate men for a living.

Gage rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the way he evades my laser beam stare. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have a lazy eye.”

To my utter horror, I laugh. Not in a derisive way. Like a… joyful…way.

I don’t like that reaction.

I scarf down the last bites of my burger, relishing the sharp tang of the cheddar and the charred edges of the perfectly cooked patty. Ugh, and the Thousand Island dressing is fucking orgasmic. I feel like I’m in heaven.

Minus Gage. So maybe like…lukewarm hell?

“Do you have a contract or something?” Although these pleasantries have been oh-so enlightening, I really don’t need to spend extra time talking to him. This is an arrangement—if I even agree to it.

His gaze finally washes over me, and my heart does this weird thump in my chest. Not a heartburn thump, either.

He scoffs. “Why would we need a contract?”

“So you can’t go back on your word.”

“I’m the one who approached you. I’m the one who needs your help more than you need mine. And I don’t go back on my word, though I’m not surprised you’d think that.”

I’m not surprised you’d think that, my head voice mimics in an eerily accurate, shrill impression of Gage.

“What’s your offer, Gage? What’s the incredible offer that’ll make me tolerate you for the next three months?” I hedge, waiting for him to bait me with money or a full-paid vacation or something else materialistic that he probably has an abundance of.

I know money could be useful in my situation. It’d let me cut back on my hours at the studio, and I’d be able to buy more than just the bare necessities every month. I wouldn’t have to worry about making rent or the cost of my mother’s medication. But I’m not going to be some girl indebted to Gage because he has a flashy car and waves his black card around.

He steals one of my fries and throws it down his gullet before I can slap his hand away. “I’m assuming a woman such as yourself couldn’t possibly be paid for her services?”

A smile, purely curated from the instructions of the shriveled, black heart in my chest, contorts my lips. “Even if I could, you couldn’t afford me.”

Gage’s chuckle isn’t some regular ha-ha; it’s this deep, guttural noise that rumbles through his chest and shakes his shoulders only slightly enough to convey merriment. So, in short, a cool guy laugh. A cool guy laugh that, for some reason, agitates a zoo full of butterflies in my belly.

Why the hell are those there? I don’t remember those ever being there.

And to hammer the last nail into my coffin, he leans forward on his elbows—which makes his shirt sleeves ruck up over his bulging biceps—

and stares me dead in the eyes with enough intensity to blot out the movement of the outside world. “I would never need money to get a girl to like me. And I certainly won’t need it when it comes to you. You’ll like me all on your own when we’re finished.”

I swallow the ball of nerves rooted in my esophagus. “Yeah, no. There’s no chance in hell you’ll ever get me to like you.”

Although the table permits enough distance, Gage’s inclining body allows me the briefest glimpse at the forelock that tumbles against his brow bone, the tiny pockmarks on his cheeks, the plumpness of his bottom lip,

and the minuscule flecks of moss scattered throughout his irises. His whole face is strangely symmetrical, with angles and ridges that would put a Michelangelo sculpture to shame.

“It’s already working,” he whispers, drawing out the syllables to imitate a spooky, hushed tone.

I falter, shake off the Gage pheromones trying to invade my body, then fling a French fry at his forehead. “It’s not,” I assert, still wrestling with the weird flutters in my stomach.

It’s not.

Exasperated, hot air puffs out my nostrils. “Can you just get to the proposal already?”

Thankfully, without having to endure whatever witchcraft entranced me in my moment of weakness, Gage acquiesces with an apathetic shrug. “You were at the rink for a reason that day, right? I’m guessing you have a sibling who plays hockey? Or skates?”

“Brother. Hockey.”

“Does he want to go pro?” he inquires.

I wish I could answer him. But the truth is, I don’t know. Teague’s never told me. Or I haven’t asked him. I’m so focused on getting him from point A to point B that I don’t even spend the time in between talking to him.

Everything else in my life consumes me so much that I don’t remember the last time I hung out with him…just to hang out with him.

“Yeah, maybe,” I lie.

Either I’m great at compartmentalizing or Gage does, in fact, only have one brain cell, because he doesn’t pick up on my dejection. I scratch my fingernail against the chipped wood of the table as shame wiggles its way beneath my skin and burrows into my bone marrow.

“I don’t know if you know this, Spitfire, but I’m a professional hockey player. Professional with a capital P. I could totally help your little scoundrel work on his hockey skills. Maybe take him under my wing if I’m feeling generous. Maybe even shape him into one of the greatest players the NHL has ever seen,” he proposes, prodding the tip of his incisor with his tongue. “And then the crowd will be like, ‘Ahh, Gage. You’re my hero.

You’re so talented and insanely hot. And you’re good with kids!’ And I’ll be like, ‘No need to thank me, half-naked ladies. I’m just doing my job.’”

I throw up in my mouth a little. “Okay, first off, that’s the most terrifying imagery to ever exist. Second off, why do you call me Spitfire?”

A half-cocked, arrogant grin winds his lips upward. “You didn’t tell me your name,” he points out.

“Maybe I didn’t want you to know my name,” I shoot back, resisting him with equal amounts of infuriating egotism. I can feel it sear the previous shame coursing through my veins, eating away at my last remnants of humility and reducing them to nothing but ash.

“You do know what Google is, right?”

Shit.

Just swallow your pride, Cali. Pray you don’t choke on it.

“It’s Cali.”

Gage lowers his brows, studies me, and seems to do some kind of full-body scan with his eyes. “That makes sense,” he eventually comments.

I chew on the tip of my straw to relieve what I can only assume is some feverish ailment that’s attacked my vulnerable body. It’s the only conceivable explanation as to why I’m not remotely feeling any violence toward Gage. “What makes sense?”

He tears a chocolate chunk off one of my cookies, and my gaze gravitates to the callouses on his large hands, the contrasting slenderness of his fingers, and the goddamn valley of veins snaking up his equally impressive forearms. For a split second, flashes overrun my mind—flashes of his hand bruising my throat, flashes of his hard body pressing me against a wall, flashes of him grinding his heavy cock into my thigh as he ushers my tongue into his mouth. And the worst part of it all is that the flashes or premonitions or whatever they are don’t evoke feelings of disgust within me.

The opposite, in fact.

That sardonic tone of his bleeds into full-throttle flirtation. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he says, staring at me through his long, thick lashes, all while his fingers bring the melted chocolate to his lips and his tongue flicks out to lick the pads.

Realistically, I know he just stuck his fingers in his mouth instead of wiping them with a napkin because he’s disgusting. Imaginatively, he was tongue-fucking his fingers in slow motion as a breeze came out of nowhere and blew his luscious hair back.

My heart begins to thrash in my chest, the lower half of me swelling with a warmth that usually only presents itself in the presence of Henry Cavill films or a high-pressure shower head. I squeeze my legs together to

dull the ache between my thighs, but now I’m self-consciously wondering if Gage can detect how flustered I am. Sweaty? Check. Darting eyes? Check.

Might’ve just soiled my panties? AGH.

What is wrong with me? I hate him. I hate his cockiness and his entitlement. I hate his… his body! His totally ugly, not-at-all-fit body.

I can hear him talking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. It’s like I’m trapped in lusty limbo, and I’m about to get dragged into the underworld by the claws of my sex-starved subconscious.

“—a trade. Hockey lessons in return for dance lessons,” he finishes.

Disjointed, I blink a few times to right my wobbling brain, my mouth filling with an influx of saliva. “But you don’t really want me to teach you how to dance…right?”

“Right. Just…like…teach me some flexibility exercises. Help me strengthen my hip, and I’ll help your brother hone his hockey skills. If you get me playing in three months, I’ll make your brother the best player in the minor league.”

It’s obvious what I have to do. Yeah, three months is a bit of a long time, but I’d do anything for my brother, even if that means making a deal with the devil. And, I mean, Teague could definitely benefit from some hockey lessons. It’s obvious he loves it so much. I saw how upset he was after those nose-picking nimrods teased him for not being good enough. I want him to be able to prove them wrong—to show them not to underestimate an underdog. I certainly can’t help him, and commercial lessons will burn another hole in my already-scorched wallet.

As much as Gage’s cockiness irks me, he has a right to be arrogant.

He’s a famous NHL player, which means he’s a talented hockey player. And I bet Teague’s teammates aren’t getting one-on-one lessons with a Riverside Reaper.

Gage pauses before adding, “And I’m paying you. Three hundred an hour. If you try any of that holier-than-thou shit with me again, I’ll just double it.”

If I was eating anything, I would’ve choked. Kind of wish I was so I could hunk a glob of cheeseburger right in his face. “Are you insane? I’m not some cha —”

“Charity case,” he finishes, making some kind of offensive hand yapping gesture. “It’s not charity. I would’ve paid whoever got lucky enough to help me.”

Lucky isn’t the word I’d use, but there is three hundred an hour on the line, so I bite my tongue. If he’s so adamant that I take his money, then who am I to turn him down? I didn’t want to succumb to a monetary bribe, but if he’s just throwing it in there to clear his conscience, then it’s hardly a bribe.

A girl knows a good deal when she sees it, even if it’s smothered in arrogance and stupid cologne.

Gage holds his hand out so we can shake on our agreement, and I inch my hand out before hesitantly jerking it back.

“That’s all this is, though. A transaction,” I vocalize, hoping that the permanence of the words will serve as a reminder for me to keep my distance.

I can’t believe I’m even saying this—because I never imagined this would be a problem—but I can’t fall for Gage. Whether that be an emotional fall or a physical fall…on his dick. Between taking care of my mom and my brother, there’s no room for me to have a love life. I just have to remember my responsibilities, my priorities, and that none of those include me getting up close and personal with any hockey player’s spare stick.

It might be a trick of the light, but I swear Gage’s hand wavers.

“A transaction,” he repeats, stone-faced, his voice harboring a frigidity unlike the feather-softness it usually possesses.

And as I snuff out the last of the Gage fantasies feeding on my clearly delirious mindscape, my fingers clasp his, sealing our deal for the next three months.

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6

HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER

GAGE

When I get home from the weirdest… dinner…I’ve ever had, all the guys are waiting for me in the living room, the vague, muffled noise of a video game rumbling through the house. I live in a two-story mansion with five of my hockey teammates, most of whom have a significant other that occupies a good portion of their time. Which brings me not only to the strangeness of them all sitting together, but to them all staring at me as I half-drag myself through the door.

I feel like I just walked in on some weird secret meeting they were having. “Uh, hey, guys,” I greet warily.

“Hey, Gage. How was dance class?” Kit asks, and it would be convincing if not for the poorly stifled snicker tacked on at the end.

Dance class. Right.

A bead of sweat cascades down my temple as I look to Fulton for help, but judging by the sanguine blush warming his entire face, I’m looking at the fucking snitch who just cost me my now-tattered masculinity.

Bristol, our captain, is splitting his focus between the screen and my utter humiliation, while Hayes is stuffing his face with popcorn and Casen is very conspicuously whispering something into his ear.

I dig my thumb into the crease between my brows, massaging the oncoming headache threatening to skewer my brain. “You told them?”

Fulton’s gaze hopscotches around the room, and a nervous tick pesters his jawline. “They forced it out of me!” he squawks.

“He told us willingly,” Hayes corrects.

“I did tell them willingly,” Fulton sighs.

Kit raises his hand lazily, a pleased smirk curling up one side of his lip.

“I’m the one who did the research, which I’m surprised you didn’t do before you went.”

My teeth barely act as a barricade for the growl in my throat. “I was busy.”

“Weren’t you late?” Casen chimes in.

Have I mentioned how much I hate my teammates sometimes? Because I do. Hate them. Sometimes.

I can’t believe I made that deal with Cali. I mean, I can believe it. I just can’t believe I agreed to it being purely… transactional. I was seconds away from sprouting a half-chub just by sitting across from her in that scrap of fabric she called a shirt. Fuck. She’s even more beautiful up close. Up close, I noticed that her hair isn’t just red, but that it’s highlighted with marmalade streaks, that she has eighteen freckles on the bridge of her nose and one hiding on the left side of her cheek, that she smells faintly of cinnamon, and that her eyes are such a deep blue that the ocean must’ve used her as inspiration.

But she barely looked at me. She was curt and weird and paler than usual. Did I just force a helpless girl into some negotiation with me? Does she feel indebted to me now that I promised to make her brother a champion? (I can, and I will, but maybe I was throwing promises around too carelessly.) I do need her help, but I also don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I mean, it’s clear she isn’t interested. I’m surprised we got through the conversation without her throwing her milkshake in my face.

How am I supposed to abide by our agreement when she’s touching me in all the right places? When she’s gripping my leg and outturning it for a better stretch? When her breasts are hanging mere inches from my face?

When I’m so enraptured by her scent that I accidentally get turned on in the middle of a session? I’m strong, but no man is that strong.

And aside from her witty remarks and fast quips—which I’m already dying to hear again, even though they’re usually aimed at me—her body is fucking perfect. When she was threatening to run over my foot with her car, the only thing I could think about was turning her around and bending her over the side, raveling my fist through her hair, smacking her half-exposed

ass in those cheeky bottoms, then taking my cock out and teasing her dripping slit.

I’ve never experienced hunger like that before—so primal, so painful. I think being that close to her actually made my brain malfunction and overheat. I couldn’t think; I could barely speak. She occupied every cell, nerve ending, muscle, and stream of consciousness in my weak little body.

The only reason I didn’t eat with her was because all those… feelings…were using my stomach as a bouncy house.

That was a meal between two strangers. I’m losing my shit over a meal between two strangers in public. I can’t imagine myself keeping my cool when we’re stuck together, in a closed room, for a full hour, using our bodies as instruments or whatever the hell you do when you dance.

This is it. This is how I die. Not some freak accident where I’m driving behind a logging truck and one of the logs goes straight through my head.

Not from old age or a murderer or some flesh-eating bacteria that I picked up from an impromptu vacation to Monaco. No, I die from Cali Whatsherlastname.

HERE LIES GAGE ARLINGTON: BELOVED TEAMMATE,

TALENTED HOCKEY PLAYER, SELFLESS SON

SIMPED TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN AND WENT UP IN FLAMES LIKE

ICARUS

A snapping sound halts my spiral of self-doom, and the guys are still looking at me when I come to, except their brow raises of judgment are replaced with brow raises of confusion.

“Hello? Where did you just go, dude? You disassociated for like a full minute,” Hayes says.

I didn’t realize it had been that obvious. “I…uh…”

Kit’s raven-black eyes narrow, and the thin line of his mouth slowly transforms into a grin. “Wait a second, I know that look. Dazed, slightly sweaty, unable to speak. He was thinking about a girl,” he announces to the whole room.

I’m going to kill him. And then kill myself.

“How do you know?” Fulton questions, his own forehead pursed in deep thought.

“The same look I had when I saw Faye’s boobs for the first time,” Kit explains.

Hayes immediately pauses his popcorn chewing, looks up from the bowl, then creepily turns his head eighty degrees to the side to stare at Kit.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Kit coughs into his fist. “I meant when I saw her b-beautiful face for the first time.”

“Uh-huh.”

Faye is Hayes’ younger sister and is currently pregnant with Kit’s child.

Which was not planned. Happened when Kit visited her during UPenn’s welcome back rager. When Hayes heard the news, he almost fainted. Hayes is a protective guy—to put it lightly. So they pretty much had to sneak around for a full summer behind his back, but I knew about them. Yeah, I have stellar detective skills.

And apparently Kit’s getting back at me for all the shit I put him through, because now I’m the one whose ass is burning in the hot seat.

Fulton perks up, hope twinkling in his eyes. “Did you meet someone in class? Is she cute? Is she nice?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I lie, praying that downplaying my crush for this girl will prevent all my ooey-gooey feelings from pouring out.

“That usually means it’s a big deal,” Bristol intervenes, the periodic click of his controller’s buttons underlying the amalgam of voices. There’s an animated zombie shuffling over to his character with oozing pustules and flaps of bloodied skin, and then Bristol does some karate high kick to decapitate it.

“It’s not,” I retort, limping over to lean against the wall since I’m guessing this interrogation will exceed the cutoff of my leg standing capabilities.

Cali’s more than just “cute.” Her beauty can’t be conceptualized; it can’t be reduced to a single word, and definitely not when it’s a word that impassionate. So breathtakingly beautiful and gorgeously stunning that it causes angels to weep? I’ll accept.

And nice? Yeah, no, Cali’s the meanest person I’ve ever met. She’d probably get along great with my asshole friends, though.

“Come on, Gage. Tell us about her,” Casen goads, swiping a kernel from Hayes’ popcorn bowl.

I fold my arms over my chest, trying to approach this situation with the utmost caution, scrambling to maintain a level of calm that won’t have my friends asking more questions or sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t. I’m usually an oversharer—which I’ve been told to stop doing when I’m pissing in public restrooms—but this time, maybe I just hold back a little. I’m getting way ahead of myself. I only learned Cali’s name tonight, and already, she’s infected every corner of my mind.

I don’t know why, but my heart tremors and my mouth dries. “Uh, it was actually the girl from the rink,” I admit, causing every head in the vicinity to turn toward me.

Bristol drops his controller, and Hayes sets his popcorn down.

“Wait, the girl you got into a fight with at practice?” Kit asks, mouth half-agape in shock.

My tongue prods the inside of my cheek. “That’s the one.”

“Didn’t she t-bone your car?” Hayes follows up.

I curb the laugh wanting to barrel up my throat, aware of the incessantly fast and entirely unrhythmic cavort of my heart. “Something like that.”

Fulton’s eyes have doubled in size. “Oh my God. So she’s in your dance class with you?”

“Yep.”

“Is there any way you can, like, go at a different time and not run into her?”

Aside from the blush I can feel tingeing my cheeks, my anxiety has made a return visit, drenching me in sweat and stirring bubbles of nausea in my belly. “Not…really,” I say vaguely, swallowing down the profuse saliva in my mouth.

“Why not?” Casen inquires, speaking for the rest of the group.

“She’s the instructor,” I mumble under my breath.

“What?”

An exaggerated sigh. “She’s the instructor.”

“Oh my God…” Fulton covers his mouth with his hands.

I don’t need to go around the room to take note of everyone’s expression, because I can guarantee that shock takes the lead. Only someone as unlucky as me would seriously find himself in this situation and then voluntarily make it harder for himself by asking her to rehabilitate him.

Kit’s quiet for a second, and then he keels over in obnoxious laughter.

“That’s…holy…I…that’s incredible,” he wheezes.

Fucker. Where’s my crutch? I’m going to shove it up his ass and make him rotate.

“Yeah, yeah. We get it. Gage fucked up. Again.”

“It’s not like you have a thing for this chick, do you?” Kit manages between wiping the tears from his eyes and the breath-stealing guffaws rocking his chest.

“What? No! Of course not,” I answer a little too quickly.

Hayes offers me a sympathetic grimace. “You can’t just find another dance studio?”

I dial my focus on the frayed hem of my jacket sleeve, picking at the pigeon-gray strands with my bitten fingernails. “Not really. And, uh, we kind of made an arrangement with each other.”

Why am I still talking? Gage, stop talking! This is embarrassing!

Bristol squints. “That sounds…”

“A SEX arrangement?” Fulton screeches, so pale that he looks like he’ll be taken out by a light gust of wind.

As much as I present myself as a playboy, I’m not. I’m not fucking a girl every single night. I’m not flirting with the shortest skirts or highest heels. I’m not keeping tally marks on my wall of how many pussies I’ve

“conquered.” And because it’s been a hot second since I’ve been with anyone, me and Fulton don’t talk about our…extracurricular activities. Not to mention that Fulton has the sexual prowess of a scarecrow: stiff, unsettling, and should be posted up in a field far away from women. I’m pretty sure Hayes thought he was gay for the longest time because he never talks to girls.

The day my boy finally gets his cherry popped, I’m buying a cake from the store and writing YOU GOT FUCKED in red frosting on it.

“God, no. No. She’s helping me with my hip, and I’m giving her brother hockey lessons,” I divulge, finally mustering the courage to tip my head up and take in the unblinking faces surrounding me.

Casen scrubs a weary hand down his stubbled jaw. “I feel like I’m going to regret asking this, but helping your hip…how?”

I open my mouth to shut down any possible alternative explanations, but Kit beats me to it when he jumps up from the couch and humps the air, all while employing his best pornographic moans. “Oh, yes, Gage! Faster!

Harder!”

Yep, that guy’s gonna be a father in seven months.

Unfortunately, that scenario will never happen for as long as I live.

There’s a better chance of me tearing my other hip flexor than Cali ever wanting to have sex with me.

“Stretches,” I grouse, not wanting to elaborate. I hate being indisposed.

I would’ve resorted to violence way sooner if it wasn’t for this brace hindering me.

Three months of stretches with the most beautiful girl that has ever graced this planet, touching me at every little convenience. I may be a competitive hockey player, but this is one game that I’m going to lose.

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