“Which one’s your friend?” She nods to the group on the other side of the stage. All the options are equally depressing. The current clients reek of bitter divorce and alcoholism.
“None of them. Look, he’s at the booth, back there.” I point, and she smiles when she sees him.
The smile stays on her lips, but it’s not in her eyes. This girl is a fucking professional. She’s not impressed just because we’re in college. She knows our divorces and alcoholism are waiting for us in the future. The reason she sees me as a transaction is because she’s a smart businesswoman. I’ve seen that same look in the eyes of way too many bunnies.
Those girls who only really wanted to sleep with me to say they felt the flame, they’re really not all that different from collectors. Instead of teacups or comic books, they collect cock-tales to share with their friends over cocktails.
“You want a lap dance for him?” She nods a little as she says it.
“Yeah, how much would that—"
“Three songs for a hundred.” She cuts me off. Her smile is gone. It’s all business now. I respect that.
I’m sure a hundred bucks is a fair wage, but I’m still a college student. That’s a lot of beer and omelets. My fucking staples. Still, it’s not like Foxies is overflowing with options, and she knows it.
“Yeah, you’ve got a deal.” I pull out my wallet and hand over five bills. She rolls them up and tucks them down the side of her knee-high boot. Rookie is waiting at our table, still not drinking and no clue what’s coming. Hopefully nothing else ends up coming…
“Hey,” I call out to Bambi. “Could you use the first couple songs to build up his confidence, maybe the first two and a half? Half of the last song is enough dancing.”
“You got it.” She knows all too well why I’m asking. Bambi doesn’t say goodbye before she walks away. Our transaction is over.
I walk back to the booth but don’t bother sitting. “Come on.” I motion for Rookie to get up.
“What?”
“Enough of the cheap seats. It’s time to go learn a thing or two in the front row.” I nod over to the long curve of barstools around the outside edge of the stage. Between each booth is a tiny table, not much wider than an armrest, to let your beer sit on.
“Naw, I’m good with the cheap seats.” He frowns, shaking his head.
“No way. You can’t learn shit from way back here. Let’s move up.” I start walking. Rookie reluctantly joins me. After I get another order in for more beer, he’s gotta go and bring up the killjoy in our lives. Again.
“Come on, Blaze. You wanna get booted for beer?”
I get what he's saying. But just because it’s logical, doesn't mean I’m going to listen. Why? No chick, especially not some uptight, ball-busting go-getter like Priscilla Stevens is going to stop me from enjoying my college years. It’s obvious she doesn’t know the first thing about fun. Just because she’s miserable doesn’t mean she can force me to be.
School used to be fun. It was parties, after-parties and watching sunrises in hotel hot tubs with bunnies. It was waking up surrounded by empties and stubbed out joints with a girl or two laying next to you in bed. It was enjoying the fucking moment because it all eventually goes away. And that’s what it did. It went away when Prissy got her job trying to clean up our team's image. I mean, your little porno gets fourteen million views, and everything goes to shit.
Tonight isn’t about viral, mascot-head sex tapes. It’s not about Prissy either. It’s about Rookie. I’m grateful when I take a drink and he doesn’t keep bitching about it. Maybe it’s because he’s gonna let it go. Maybe it’s because Bambi just walked on stage. I’m going with the second one.
Rookie barely blinks when she swirls around the pole. I think it’s fair to say this is his first strip club. She dances great, but Rookie is looking at her like she’s a prima ballerina dancing just for him in a naked ballet.
Strippers and ballerina’s make me think of Vitus, the Patron Saint of dancers. I can’t believe I still remember all of those random Patron Saints from back, in another lifetime, when I went to an all-boys Catholic School. Nothing like a bunch of hormonal teenage boys with no girls around to focus on. My friends and I studied up on all the random Saints out there. We’d try to drop them casually in class conversations. Anything to annoy the Sisters.
It’s been a few years, but I still remember that dentists have a Patron Saint called Apollina. My favorite was St. Drogo though, the Patron Saint of ugly people. I don’t remember a Patron Saint for virgin men, but if there isn’t one, I should get the title. That hundred bucks should score me ultimate wingman status… for eternity.
Bambi finishes her dance and walks over to us, zeroing in on Rookie. “What’s your deal? You’re not exactly my usual audience tonight.” She almost purrs at him. She flutters her long lashes and turns on the charm the same way the rest of us turn on a faucet. She’s miles away from the dead-eyed business lady I paid in the hall.
“Just stopped in for a drink.” Rookie is awkward as fuck. Why’s he staring at his hands of all places? This kid couldn’t have less game.
“Come have a drink with me. Over there.” She rolls her finger toward the booth we just came from.
Rookie’s eyes dart to me.
“Go have a drink.” I nudge him.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck yeah. What have ya got to lose?”
“I don’t have any money.” Rookie pats his pockets like he thinks she’s gonna shake him down later.
“Good thing I’m not looking for any,” she answers breezily. “Come on.” Bambi grabs his hand and that’s it. Rookie looks like he might float over to that booth with stars in his eyes and a boner in his pants.
Watching him walk off with her puts a smile on my face. I lift the beer I haven’t started drinking yet, the one Rookie refused, and get a start on it. I should be fucking anointed. The bar hasn’t changed, but now there’s hope in the darkness. This is exactly the confidence boost the kid needs to get laid. Something good is going to come from this sad, Ghost-of-Christmas-Future strip club after all. It’s been a while since I’ve had a win, but this feels like one. I think I deserve to enjoy the joint in my pocket outside. I’ve earned it.
When I gaze over at the exit, I notice a chick marching across the bar. Fuck. I’d recognize that sexy, pinched look on her face anywhere. It’s Prissy. Priscilla hates her nickname, probably because it’s perfect, and she knows it… definitely because I came up with it.
How did she know I was here? Did she have me fucking microchipped? There’s no way Coach Wilson called her. It must have been His Royal fucking Majesty, and ultimate roommate back stabber, Player.
Her hips roll with every angry stride she takes toward me. Anger flashes in her dark eyes and flush her cheeks with a tinge of red. Her lips are clamping in a mouth full of lecture that she’s about to unleash. I bring my beer to my lips and watch her storm over all worked up and sexy.
I wonder what she looks like in bed.
“Seriously?” Prissy walks right up to me, arms crossed over her chest, which is a real shame. She tilts her head at me, but I don’t care about her little huff. “This is what you’re doing with your life?”
I slowly sip my beer before looking her up and down. “Are you here to dance?”
She rolls her eyes and, somehow, makes even that sexy. It’s a fucking shame that someone who can make my cock twitch from an eyeroll is this fucking annoying. It just reminds me of the biggest life lesson I ever learned - Life’s. Not. Fair.
“I’m digging the sexy secretary vibe.” I’d look her over anyway, but now I drag it out. Since my tongue can’t have any fun, I let my eyes enjoy trailing over every inch of her.
“This is pathetic… even for you.” Her eyes wander around the club, and she crinkles her nose like the reek of desperation in here has reached her nostrils.
Foxies doesn’t exactly cater to the A-list clientele, so I get it. Still, if she would stop being a stuck
-up, judgy ball-buster… I snap my fingers, and her eyes are back on me.
“You’ve gotta have a stage name. I’ve got the perfect one: Becky Ball-Buster.”
Prissy rolls her eyes. Both hands dig into her hips, and it really just adds to her fuck-me librarian vibe. “You’ve had your fun. It’s time to leave…” She starts into the lecture part. I’m bored with the lecture part.
“Save me a dance, will ya?” I cut her off. “I’ve got some crisp bills I’m dying to stuff in your…”
“Blaze, stop!” Her cheeks rush red. “You do not get to talk to me like that.” Her hands fly up, ready to swat my words.
“What?” I do my innocent face, the face I use whenever I pretend not to know who took the last package of Pop-Tarts. It’s the same face I used when I told Coach Wilson I had no idea who the guy in the grainy, green night-vision porn was.
“You were going to say... pussy.” She drops her voice to a whisper on the last word, but the lightning flash of anger in her eyes is unmistakable.
I’m not doing innocent face now. This is my genuinely confused face.
“Pussy? You thought I was going to say pussy?”
“Yeah.” When she purses her lips at me like that, I just want to smile. A lot of girls do the cute-when-they’re-angry thing, but none do it as well as Prissy. Whenever she stands there, with her hands firmly dug into her hips, it just reminds me how much I want to run my hands over them.
“Who would say that? That’s not a thing. I was going to say G-string. I don’t know if you need to hear this, but it’s not normal to have cash stuffed in your pussy.”
I fight the smile trying to tug up my lips. She looks like she might kick me in the balls in a second, typical Becky Ball-Buster for you.
She nods toward the stage. “Well, you’re the expert, aren’t you? Is there anything sadder than sitting stage-side and drinking at a strip club… alone?”
She thinks she’s firing shots at me, but they’re hitting every sad, sweatpant-man around me.
“You’re going from Blaze to Burn-out.” She thinks she got me with that one, like I’m going to be shattered by what she thinks.
I’m not.
“I guess I am drinking alone? But only because Rookie is otherwise occupied.” I nod over to the booth. Prissy jolts taller when she sees Rookie across the bar. He’s busy getting buried under an enthusiastic lap dance. Even though he’s wearing jeans, I hope he had a couple of drinks first.
Bambi is grinding on him, giving Rookie a face full of tits and us quite the view. I like the color rising in her cheeks. I love getting her worked up.
“I’ll tell you what, how about you let us finish out our night, let the kid get his booth time, and I’ll promise to be back to Hector House in time for curfew?”
“I have an even better idea,” she counters, eyes narrowing. “Put down your beer. Leave now, or I promise you won’t play anymore hockey this year.”
I shrug and take another drink. “I tried to compromise. Here’s my counter offer. Take your tight ass and your hissy attitude and go away. Unless you changed your mind about dancing?” She barely flinches at the remark, but her blazing cheeks tell me everything I need to know.
“You know what? Fuck this.” She stomps off.
Pretty clear victory if you ask me. I’m sure I’m gonna hear about it later. Maybe from Coach. Definitely from Player. I can’t worry about that stuff now though. That is future-Blaze’s problem. Right now, I’m gonna finish this beer. I try to concentrate on the stage. I watch the new dancer, but it’s Prissy on my mind.
I’m not sure what’s worse, that Player tattled, or that she showed up like she’s cancelling my fucking playdate. Giving me that same “I’m so disappointed in you” look that I’ve seen on quite a few faces over the years. I’m going to chill, enjoy my drink and see how the rest of the night plays out…
What the actual fuck?
Prissy is on the stage. The same stage there’s a girl stripping on. At first, she looks nervous. Is she going to take my advice? My cock twitches as the thought of her working that pole breezes through my mind.
I cup my hands into a megaphone. “Go Becky!”
Prissy throws her shoulders back. Her eyes lock on me. She walks tall, her nerves steadied. Determination sharpens her features. She might have the confidence of a stripper, but there’s zero chance she’s up there to dance. Becky Ball-Buster is on stage to live up to her name, and it’s clear exactly whose balls are in danger.
Mine.
3
Kneel Before the Queen
Priscilla
The exit is blurry. I keep squeezing my eyes so tears won’t build up. He will not make me cry. He may have won his little stand-off back there, but he won’t win the war. He thinks that my job is a joke. Obviously, he doesn’t take me seriously either. It’s not easy being El Chapo’s personal nanny.
Blaze acts like the entire world has been fooled into playing by a set of rules. Meanwhile, he set the rule book on fire. Of course, it’s no surprise he’s like that. If all of Westbury’s Warrior-elite are treated like royalty, then the hockey boys are the Kings. And there is no shortage of college girls willing to kneel before them. There isn’t a single place on campus these guys can go without being recognized. Every party, hockey practice and even in every class, they are constantly approached. Usually by bunnies.
Usually by several.
Easy access doesn’t stop at meaningless sex. Everything at Westbury is handed to these guys on a silver platter. The “special curve” they are graded on is no secret. At the end of the year, they pass, no exceptions. It doesn’t matter how many classes they miss, how many projects they never work on, they always skate by.
There is very little in life that guys like Blaze actually earn. Except being a cocky jerk. He’s definitely earned that title. If hockey boys are kings, he has the biggest empire. Here’s the thing though, I remember him from my senior year. Even back when he was just a freshman, he walked around Westbury like clouds should be forming under his feet with every step. He’s always been this bad.
If anything, he’s now got a few years of college hockey to back up his attitude. Blaze sucks at a lot of things. Impulse control. Manners. Modesty. However, hockey isn’t one of them. Those cloud-steps make a lot more sense when I watch him play. On the ice, he’s a god amongst men.
I slow my walk to the door. What am I doing? If I leave, this job is over. I’m supposed to revamp the Warriors’ image. More specifically, I’m supposed to keep the one thing that keeps tarnishing that image from self-destructing. If I leave Blaze in a strip club, drinking and influencing new guys on the team to do the same, I’m done. If I give up, I deserve to lose my job. There’s no way that’s happening. This contract with Westbury is my second chance to get my first opportunity in my field. It’s not like I can use my last job on my resume. I can’t let Blaze bully me out.
I stop and turn to see Blaze still sitting where I left him. He doesn’t even glance over. It’s clear that our little argument had zero effect on him. He pushes back his shaggy hair and takes a long swallow of the beer he’s forbidden to drink. He’s already forgotten I was even there. How am I going to get his stubborn ass out of here?
A waitress with brown hair stops beside me and stares at Blaze. “He’s pretty, but sex toys are a lot less trouble. Guys like him don’t change unless they’re forced to. At least a vibrator doesn’t steal the last cookie or the blankets.” She keeps walking to the bar, empty beer bottles threaded between her fingers. “Or break our hearts,” she yells back over her shoulder.
She’s right, of course. Not about the heartbreak, obviously, but that Blaze will never change. Why would he? No one will ever force him to. Professors, coaches, fans and bunnies, they all give them a free ride - in more ways than one. Guys like Blaze think they rule the entire universe because that’s exactly how they’re treated. Who in their lives tells them they don’t?
“I will,” I mumble.
Clenching my fists, I march back toward Blaze. The entire time, he never takes his eyes off the stage. He’s never going to pay attention to me when there’s a girl dancing up there. He’ll just tune me out.
I will not be ignored. He might not remember me from his freshman year, but I’m about to make an impression he’ll never forget. I turn up a hall that leads to the bathrooms and stage entrance. With each step, I go back and forth about which one will be my destination.
Toilet. Stage. Toilet. Stage. Toilet... Just like a kid picking petals off a daisy. My foot hits the ground, and the last word in my mind is clear.
Stage.
I hesitate at the steps leading up. Standing up tall, I throw my shoulders back and remind myself that I’m never letting any man make me give up my job again.
My daisy is out of petals. Stage wins. Before I can second guess it, or talk myself out of it, I walk right up the stairs. My mind is completely blank as I step onto the stage. I’m immediately filled with regret as hot, white lights blind me. The dancer stops coiling herself around the pole and frowns at me.
Why didn’t I choose the toilet first? Toilet then stage, that would have been a better decision.
But here I am, frozen like Bambi about to get flattened by a Mack truck.
“Go, Becky!”
That’s his voice. Blaze. He thinks his Ball-Buster name is so funny. Well, he’s about to watch me earn it. Queens stand tall to keep their crowns in place, I remind myself. My shoulders slide back, and my chin tilts up. Everyone knows in a game of chess, the Queen is the most powerful. He doesn’t know it yet, but the King of Westbury has met his match. I’m going to make him kneel before the Queen.
I step forward, and the girl moves back from the pole. She’s probably worried that I’m crazy or dangerous or both. I feel bad for that, but not bad enough to back down. I’m making a point here, a point that will show her in two seconds that I’m not a threat.
BLAZE: Enemies to Lovers College Hockey Romance Page 2
