Hate to Love You

by Jennifer Sucevic

  He’s more of a…pretty decoration.

  Man candy for the ladies of Whitmore to fawn over.

  Managerial Finance meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at ten o’clock in the morning at Brighton Hall, which is the business building on campus. It takes an extra-large caramel mocha to get through this class without coming unhinged and losing my shit on them. Since we don’t have assigned seating, I’m strategic about choosing a different desk each class session in the hope that Brody will park himself elsewhere. Preferably on the other side of the room where I can’t be distracted by the deep timbre of his voice.

  He never does. Somehow, he always ends up right behind me. I swear he does it on purpose. Other than to mess with me, I have no idea why he would bother.

  Whitmore is a private university where hockey reigns supreme. Not even football can compete with hockey at this school. Every year, there are a handful of players that end up drafted to the NHL. That alone makes Whitmore a premier school for rising hockey talent in the country and Canada.

  I’m sure the university rakes in a ton of revenue from ticket sales and merchandising. Two years ago, they built a brand-new, state-of-the-art arena on campus. So, it goes without saying that the hockey players are treated like royalty around here.

  It’s annoying, but you get used to it…after a while.

  Or, like me, you simply ignore it.

  Personally, I don’t understand all the fandemonium. It’s just a game. Sure, hockey is a fun spectator sport. The pace, the action, the adrenalin. It’s easy to get swept away by the frenzy. I’ll admit to enjoying my fair share of games during the three years I’ve attended Whitmore, but that doesn’t mean I understand the culture of hero worship that surrounds it. Nor am I one of these idiot girls who wants to sleep with as many of the guys on the team as I can.

  Ummm…No, thank you. I enjoy being STD-free.

  When it comes right down to it, these guys are just a bunch of over-muscly jocks who have mastered the art (snort) of slapping a black rubber disc at a net and getting into fistfights on and off the ice at the least provocation.

  Let’s keep it in perspective, people. They’re not exactly curing cancer or solving world hunger. And thusly, shouldn’t be treated as such.

  There are about forty hockey players who attend Whitmore. And Brody McKinnon is probably the most talented—and talked about—player on the team. Even in high school, he was on the NHL radar. He made a name for himself playing juniors before gracing us with his esteemed presence. As much as it pains me to admit it, he’s exploded at the college level. The chatter around campus is that he’s already under contract for an NHL team.

  Is that true?

  Who knows.

  Better yet, who cares?

  I try not to pay attention to the constant gossip that churns where he’s concerned, but it’s impossible to ignore. Being at Whitmore is like being held prisoner in a hockey-obsessed bubble. You’re inundated with the information whether you want it or not.

  Even though it’s perfectly clear that an extraneous conversation is taking place behind me, Dr. Miller ignores it and continues with her lecture on capital budgeting techniques. Far be it for her to reprimand one of our star athletes. Normally, I would tune Brody and his groupies out, but it’s not working today.

  I woke up late and didn’t have time to stop at Java House for my usual extra-grande cup of caffeine.

  So, I’m cranky and out of sorts.

  Which is never a good combination. Especially for Brody.

  When I can’t stand another moment of their incessant chatter, I spin around on my chair and give Brody a perfectly honed death glare. It’s not difficult. I can’t look at him without my face contorting into that expression. This guy has rubbed me wrong from day one. And it’s only gone downhill from there.

  Our eyes collide, and Brody’s brows skyrocket into his hairline before a knowing smirk moves across his face at a glacier pace.

  He mouths one word.

  Jealous?

  I huff.

  As if…

  My guess is that he’s taken one too many slapshots to the head. It’s sad, really…

  His eyes sparkle with mischief as he deliberately rims the edges of his lips with his tongue.

  In your dreams, I mouth back and whip around again to face the front. My teeth are clenched so tightly, they’re in imminent danger of shattering.

  This is exactly what Brody McKinnon does to me.

  Every.

  Damn.

  Time.

  The remainder of class drags. The subject matter doesn’t help. This unit is a killer. I find myself repeatedly glancing at the clock, antsy to get out of here. Which sucks. Usually, I enjoy Dr. Miller’s lectures. The majority of the professors in the business department are old and stodgy. Dr. Miller has only been teaching for a few years. She’s like a breath of fresh air. I’ve already exhausted all of her course offerings.

  As soon as she wraps up her lecture and dismisses the class, I pack up my bag and beeline for the door. I need to put as much distance between myself and—

  I don’t make it more than five steps before a thickly muscled arm is thrown over my shoulders, halting my progress.

  I grunt under the heavy weight of it.

  What does this guy eat for breakfast?

  Lead?

  “Davies, why so angry this morning?” Before I can snap out an annoyed retort, Brody continues. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me. Let me see if I can guess.” He taps his chin with a finger in contemplation. It’s an interesting look on him. Not one I’ve seen too often. I’m about to tell him this, when he says, “Your favorite vibe died just as you were getting to the kinky part of your self-love session.”

  One side of my mouth curls up in disgust, and I shove at the arm anchoring me to him. It doesn’t budge. Not that I expected it to. “Nailed it. How’d you figure it out?”

  Brody has the rare ability of making me feel like a rabid dog on a choke chain. If I could rip him to shreds with my bare teeth, I would in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t even give it a second thought.

  I’m in no way a violent person, but Brody McKinnon brings out the worst in me.

  The chuckle that escapes from his lips is warm and sultry. Even though I fight against it, it still manages to strum something deep inside me.

  “Well, you’re even more pissed off than usual. Which is really saying something.” He tugs me closer so that I’m inundated by the scent of his cologne. Something that smells unbearably like beachy sunshine overwhelms my senses. God, why does he have to smell so delicious? Why can’t he reek of BO? That would be so much easier to deal with than this.

  How can I detest someone so much and yet still want to devour them? It’s not the first time I’ve wondered this. I can only hope it’ll be the last.

  His voice dips until it vibrates somewhere in the vicinity of husky and sumptuous. “Tell you what, if you’ve got some time to kill, I’ll remedy that situation for you.” He wiggles his eyebrows and purrs, “Take the edge off, so to speak.” Even though I’m pressed against his hard, unyielding body, he somehow manages to give me the once-over. It feels very much like a physical caress. Heat floods my panties in response. Damn him for making me feel this way. “I bet I could get you off in ten minutes.” He narrows his eyes in a thoughtful manner. “Probably less. You seem wound pretty tight, Davies. Ever have a multiple orgasm? I think it would do wonders for your disposition.”

  If any other guy on campus were stupid enough to say the same thing to me, I’d probably slug him. Even though it goes against my better judgment, I withhold any kind of response from him. This isn’t the first time we’ve verbally sparred with one another, and it won’t be the last. This, unfortunately, is the kind of demented relationship we’ve developed over the years. He loves to give me shit, and I do my best to pretend he doesn’t exist.

  Which isn’t easy. Even though it kills me to admit it, Brody McKinnon is a lot to take in. Tall. Muscular. Athleti
c. Broad shoulders. Narrow, tapered waist. Long, dirty blond hair streaked with gold that grazes the collar of his shirt. Whiskey-colored eyes that are always crinkled with laughter. Usually at my expense. Damnable dimples that are capable of making grown women turn into babbling idiots.

  I, however, am the exception.

  It’s like I have a superpower where Brody is concerned. He might be hot…Actually, there’s no might be about it. The guy is off-the-charts smoking. Girls follow him around campus in droves, drooling and giggling while trying to catch his wandering attention.

  But he doesn’t affect me the way he does every other female at this school. I’m immune to his charms.

  Okay.

  Not immune exactly.

  I’d have to be dead not to feel something when he’s near. But there’s no way I would ever act on the unwanted heat generated between us.

  Good Lord, I’m not a masochist.

  Brody’s reputation as a manwhore preceded him before he ever stepped foot on Whitmore’s ivy-covered campus. There are legions of women who have already punched their ticket for that ride. They could, if they were so inclined, form their own support group.

  I have zero interest in joining their not-so-illustrious ranks.

  If you’re stupid enough to fall under his spell and into his bed, then you deserve to suffer the consequences of your stupidity. Which probably means getting swabbed regularly for a variety of STDs.

  Reminding myself of his reputation is all it takes to stomp out the heat that had flared to life in the pit of my belly. All right, damn it, lower…much lower. I give him my best dead salmon look. “Thanks, but I’ll be taking a hard pass on that generous offer.”

  He shrugs as if it’s no skin off his back. And it probably isn’t. He could get laid within a matter of minutes if he wanted to with any number of willing participants. “Suit yourself, Davies. It’s your loss. I’m just trying to help a friend out.”

  I laugh. “Ahhhh. That’s where you went wrong, McKinnon.” I shake my head and give him an expression full of faux-sympathy. “We’re not friends. We’ll never be friends. Unsurprisingly, your thinking was flawed from the very beginning.”

  He places a hand over his heart as a wounded look flits across his handsome face. “Ouch. That hurts.”

  “Doubtful.”

  I exhale a breath when Brody holds open the door leading out into the bright sunshine. I’m not sure how much more of this intimacy I can take. I mutter my thanks as the warm wind hits my cheeks and we step on the wide stone stairs before descending. The last dregs of summer are still hanging on. Soon all of the trees on campus will change. Fall will be in the air. Which means one thing…

  Hockey season.

  Ugh.

  A group of about six or seven girls at the bottom of the steps catch my eye. As soon as their hungry gazes fall on Brody, they start clamoring en masse. It’s like a rock star has just stepped into their midst.

  I roll my eyes at their ridiculousness. Are they unaware that women have been marching all over the world demanding gender equality, and here they are chasing down some hot dude? They seriously don’t have a more productive way to spend their time? Maybe empower themselves with the education they’re supposedly here to get?

  As if to answer my silent question, a few actually squeal and wave their hands in the air. Yep, this is what I’m dealing with.

  Instead of feeling irritated, I should thank them because they’ve created the perfect opportunity for me to make a hasty escape.

  “It would seem that your adoring public awaits,” I comment.

  Slipping from beneath his arm, I hustle down the steps. The more distance that stretches between us, the easier it is for me to breathe. With any luck, I won’t see Brody until Monday.

  At ten a.m., to be exact.

  And not a moment sooner.

  I’ll need at least that long to decompress.

  “Aww, Davies, come on. Don’t run away.” Humor simmers in his voice as he shouts at my retreating backside. “I promise, there’s plenty of me to go around!”

  Without turning, I sense the full-blown grin on his lips. I’m sure his dimples are out in full force. I don’t break stride as I flip him the bird.

  His laughter follows me as I slip into the crowd.

  Chapter Three

  Natalie

  “Hey, girlie, what’s the word?” Zara smiles up at me.

  With a sigh, I drop my bag on the bench across from my roommate and slide in on the other side of the booth with my tray.

  Zara has the appearance of a wood sprite. She stands a few inches over five feet and is slender as a wand with mink-colored hair that is short and pixie-like. Not many women could pull off the look, but Zara totally owns it. She may give off the delicate and tiny vibe, but she’ll kick your ass if the occasion calls for it.

  I’ve been on the receiving end of her foot more than a few times. It never feels good.

  We met the summer before fourth grade when her family moved in down the block from mine. By the time school started, we’d become thick as thieves. I’m lucky to have Zara in my life. She’s a good friend who has been there for me through hell and high water. When my parents’ marriage fell apart nine months ago, it was Zara who picked up the shattered pieces. One month after that, when I discovered that my boyfriend, Reed Collins, was cheating on me, she threatened to cut off his junk. I declined the offer but appreciated the sentiment. Any friend who’s willing to do that is one you hold onto for dear life.

  Boys will come and go, girlfriends are forever.

  “Annoying,” I huff. Normally I’m able to shake off my run-ins with Brody. But my blood is still boiling from our exchange. “The word for today is ‘annoying.’”

  She laughs and spears a piece of lettuce and a cherry tomato with her fork. “Uh-oh, should I even bother to ask?”

  “It’s probably better if you don’t.” Plus, I don’t really want to spend time talking about Brody. I pick up a fry and dredge it in ketchup before popping it in my mouth. If I have one weakness, it’s French fries. Coffee is a very close second. “I’m doing my best to forget the entire unpleasant episode.” Which isn’t easy. Brody lingers like a bad stench that’s stuck in your nostrils.

  Luke, Zara’s newly-minted boyfriend, slides his big body in next to her.

  This is their first public appearance. At least in front of me, it is. I’m not going to go so far as to say they were hiding their relationship from me…

  Fine, I’ll say it. They hid their relationship from me.

  Zara knows how I feel about the hockey players at this school. Especially after the whole Reed debacle. In fact, I was under the impression we were of one mind on this topic.

  Apparently not…Because now she’s dating one.

  Luke meets my gaze from across the table. He gives me a chin lift in greeting like I’m one of the guys and us meeting up for lunch is a normal, everyday occurrence. “What’s up, Natalie?”

  Ha! As if I would let him off the hook that easily…

  I don’t think so.

  “You mean, other than my best friend sneaking around behind my back with her new boyfriend?” I bat my eyelashes and give him an innocent look. “Not much. What’s up with you?”

  Zara chokes on a laugh, and the edges of Luke’s lips curve into an easy grin.

  “Does the fact that you haven’t climbed across the table and strangled me mean we have your stamp of approval?” he asks.

  Narrowing my eyes, I point a fry at him. “The jury is still out on that one, buddy.” As I take a sip of my Coke, I give him the hairy eyeball. When I’m finished, I threaten, “Just know that if you screw around on her, I’ll break both your kneecaps. Hockey will be nothing more than a distant, yet fond, memory.”

  He gives Zara a sidelong look from the corner of his eye. She shrugs her shoulders as if to say what can you do?

  “Consider yourself warned,” I add evilly.

  He cocks his head as he picks up his burger.
“You’re kind of a scary chick, Davies.”

  “Good.” I nod approvingly. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

  Even though I’m giving Luke shit, I do like him. Out of all the hockey players Zara could have fallen for, he’s the nicest. Unlike most of his teammates, he doesn’t consider sleeping with the girls on campus to be a competitive sport.

  That being said, he does have one fatal flaw that’s difficult to overlook.

  Just as I shove another fry in my mouth, a hard body slams into me from the side. I grunt as the force of impact scoots my butt across the wood bench. I’m lucky that I don’t come away with splinters.

  “Slide it on over, Clyde,” a deep voice says.

  For one dazed moment, I stare in horror.

  No. No. No. This can’t be happening.

  He isn’t supposed to sit at my table while I’m trying to enjoy lunch with my friend. I’m not supposed to see him until next Monday. At ten o’clock. And not a moment sooner. It’s an unwritten agreement between us. Like a peace accord. And he’s flat-out disregarding it.

  “Why in God’s name are you here?” Before he has a chance to respond, I hiss, “Are you stalking me? Is that what’s going on?”

  “That depends, would you like me to stalk you?” One side of Brody’s mouth hitches in amusement. “I’ve got a bit of free time I was looking to fill. I could probably slot you in.”

  Harnessing all of my energies, I glare and wait for him to burst into flames. I’m disappointed when nothing happens.

  “Should I take your silence to mean that you’re in agreement with this plan?” he drawls, looking perfectly at ease.

  My eyebrows lower and my shoulders tense. See? He’s only been here for thirty seconds, and already I’m starting to foam at the mouth. This day nosedived in finance class and is now proceeding to explode on impact.

  “Why are you here?” I ask again.

  Brody lifts his chin toward the only other guy at the table. “Came to hang with my boy.”