BLAZE: Enemies to Lovers College Hockey Romance

and it fucking sucks.
“I am relaxed.” He’s not convincing. Worry pinches his face.
“We’ll just have a beer, watch some girls and get back before the fucking curfew. It’s not a big deal.” I walk him over to a booth. The lighting is lower away from the stage, and Rookie really seems to want to avoid the spotlight.
“Why push it, man? It’s crazy enough they let me in here. They’re not gonna serve my baby face any beer. Besides, this isn’t really our crowd.” Rookie looks around the room, and it doesn’t take him long to soak it all in. Foxies is fucking dead.
“Pfft, come the fuck on. There isn’t a bar in town that’s gonna turn down serving that baby face as long as they know what team it plays for. You think you’re the first guy they’ve served underage? That’s like, ninety percent of their business. Not tonight, obviously.” We both look over at the aging sadness sitting next to the stage.
“Obviously.” Rookie cringes, like it’s burning his eyes to look at them.
“It’ll be a good time.” I try to convince him. “This actually works better. Look, we can sit where we want. There’s no line at the bar. There are fewer guys. Who do you think a girl wants to dance for? Them or us?”
We look back over at the handful of men. They look about the same age as my Dad. All of them are sitting around the stage, bellied up to perv alley. They’re drinking until they’ve got enough whiskey dick that a lap dance won’t make them blow a load in their sweatpants, but it’ll still bring them close. Not the type of sweatpants I pull out in the fall when college girls smell like pumpkin spice and everything nice, but they’re hungry for some sausage. Nah, these are threadbare and full of stains. The kind of stains you get when you’re too sad, and you can’t stop crying... from your dick.
Turns out hump day is not a good night for naked dancing. Who knew? Not me when I decided to bring him here.
Rookie sighs, and it’s quiet enough in here that I have no problem hearing it. “Alright, I’ll stay, but I’m not drinking.”
“Come on, are you serious? You won’t have one beer?”
“Fuck that. Pricilla will get me cut off the team. I’m not fucking around with a temper that cold. Girls like that will fuck you up.”
“How do you know so much about girls all of a sudden?”
“I’ve got three sisters, and two of them are like Pricilla. They would cut me without blinking.” I start to laugh, but I’m not sure if he’s kidding.
Pricilla Stevens isn’t the first hard-ass I’ve come across over the years, but she is — without question — the sexiest. It’s not a fair scale since the other two currently are Player and Coach Wilson.
Prissy has proven one thing since she came into my life: no amount of sexy can fix annoying. Her personality is like porcupine quills doused in rubbing alcohol. She needs to smoke a blunt herself and fucking relax.
“Fuck that, Prissy isn’t here. She’s not going to find out we’re here. This is a you problem. You don’t know how to go with the moment. Live a little.” A waitress drops some drinks off to the sweatpant crowd, and I wave her over.
“No, man. All the restrictions suck, but it’s not worth throwing away hockey for.” Rookie shakes his head.
The waitress walking our way is hot in a hard-life, take-no-shit kind of way. Rookie isn’t looking at her. His eyes are on the stage. The stripper rocks her hips. Slowly. Her dance is completely off the beat of the music. Whatever song she’s gyrating to, it’s in her head.
An angry hive of irritated hornets buzz in my brain. I told Rookie I’d take him out and show him a thing or two about picking up bunnies. Honestly, I’m the one who needs the night out. I’m sick of constantly being watched, lectured at and controlled.
Have I made some mistakes in college? Who the fuck hasn’t? Drinking underage and partying aren’t things I invented… I just perfected them. So, sue me. Sex with countless consenting college chicks doesn’t make me some kind of criminal; it makes me your typical, single college guy.
Still, if I knew I’d end up with a watchdog-nanny just for making a sex video, I wouldn’t have done it. The only reason it went viral is because I fucked that chick wearing the Westbury Warrior’s mascot head. That and because the video was filmed on night vision mode. And because of the part when I cum and yell out, “I am a Warrior!”
It’s hard to pinpoint what makes things popular on the internet.
“Maybe a strip club isn’t the best place to pick up girls?” Rookie says, his eyes still locked on the hypnotic dance.
“Yeah? Watch this, then.” I kick his foot under the booth and snap him from his daze.
The waitress, whose brown hair is pulled back in a messy bun, stops beside the booth with a curt nod. “What do you wanna drink?”
Instead of that fake smile you’d expect from someone in a customer service job, she’s making zero effort. There’s no trace of friendliness on her lips. Her eyes barely look alive when they flicker over us. She’s putting in the bare minimum, and she wants to make sure every guy here knows it.
“We’ll get a couple of house drafts,” I answer.
“Sure.” She starts to turn away.
“Hey, what’s your name?” I get her attention, and she turns back.
She scans me over with one hand perched on her hip. She looks like she’s deciding if I’m a creep or not. I think she chooses not because she tilts her head, gives a pressed-lip smile and squints. “Ayla.”
“That’s your real name?”
“Yeah.” She sorta shrugs.
“I’m Blaze.”
“That’s not your real name,” she scoffs.
“You’re right, it’s my stage name.” I manage to twist that fake smile up on her lips higher. It almost reaches her eyes.