Penalty Box Heartthrob

Cassie I stared at myself in the dressing-room mirror and immediately reached for the hem of the shirt. “No.” Sophia didn’t even look up from her phone. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.” “No as in absolutely not. No as in I’m taking this off. No as in whoever designed this shirt clearly hates women with boobs.” That got her attention. Sophia lowered her phone and looked me over. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you’re buying that.” “I am absolutely not buying this.” “Cassie.” “Sophia.” “Your boobs look incredible.” I looked down at myself. “My boobs look like they’re trying to leave the store without me.” She laughed so loudly that someone in the dressing room next to us laughed too. “See?” I pointed at the wall. “Even strangers are mocking me.” “She isn’t mocking you. She’s supporting you.” “Then she can buy the shirt.” I grabbed the bottom of the fitted black top again. It wasn’t even particularly revealing. That was the annoying part. It had a low neckline, sure, but most women could probably wear it without looking like they were smuggling two basketballs beneath it. Unfortunately, I had been cursed with double D’s. Some women paid thousands of dollars for breasts this size. I would’ve happily sold them mine at a discount. Sophia stood and came up behind me. “Stop pulling on it.” “I’m taking it off.” “No.” “I’ve already agreed to go to this stupid party. You can’t also dictate my clothes.” “You agreed after I spent three days bothering you.” “That still counts.” Barely. AKL was throwing one of its massive parties tonight, and I’d made the mistake of telling Sophia I would go. I’d been regretting it since approximately thirty seconds after agreeing. I didn’t hate parties. I was president of my sorority. Parties came with the territory. I just wasn’t in the mood to spend my Saturday night stepping over drunk people while pretending not to notice somebody making out against every available wall. “I have clothes at the house,” I reminded her. “Yes. You have seventeen versions of the same shirt.” “I do not own seventeen versions of the same top, Sophia.” “Okay, maybe I exaggerated a little, but come on, Cassie. You own so many loose tops that I’m starting to think you’re secretly pregnant.” I gasped. “Take that back.” “Then buy this.” “No.” I reached for the curtain. Sophia blocked me. “You know Brett is going tonight.” And there it was. The reason we’d somehow gone from I’ll meet you at the party to Sophia dragging me shopping three hours beforehand. I crossed my arms, then immediately uncrossed them because that only made my cleavage worse. “What does Brett have to do with my shirt?” “Nothing.” “Exactly.” Sophia gave me a look. I hated that look. Brett Matthews and I had been friends since freshman year. Somehow, during those years, I’d also managed to do the incredibly stupid thing of falling for him. He didn’t know. At least, I prayed he didn’t. Because Brett had never given me any indication that he saw me as anything other than Cassie. His friend. The person he called when he needed notes from a class, someone to eat with, or somebody to listen when hockey was making him crazy. Meanwhile, Brett was one of the hockey gods on campus. He and his friends—Marco, Blake, and Ollie—had earned the stupid nickname because they were talented enough to have real professional prospects and attractive enough that women followed them around like hockey had suddenly become a religion. The puck bunnies certainly worshipped at the altar. Sophia tugged lightly on my sleeve. “You hide yourself.” “I do not.” “You do. And before you start yelling at me, I’m not saying you need to walk around with your boobs hanging out.” “That’s reassuring.” “I’m saying Brett is constantly surrounded by women who have no problem making sure he notices them.” My stomach tightened. “I don’t care who Brett notices.” “Liar.” “He isn’t my boyfriend.” “I know.” Sophia paused. “That’s kind of my point.” Ouch. I turned back toward the mirror. The worst part was that the shirt actually looked good. It hugged my waist instead of hiding it. My jeans fit nicely too, and together they made me look… different. Not like someone else. Just more noticeable. That might’ve been what scared me. “I don’t want to compete with a bunch of puck bunnies.” “Then don’t.” “You literally just told me—” “I told you to stop hiding. There’s a difference.” I stared at myself. “What if Brett laughs?” Sophia’s expression changed. “Brett wouldn’t laugh at you.” “Not at me. At this.” I gestured toward the shirt. “He’ll ask why I’m dressed like this. Or tell me it isn’t me.” “Then tell him to mind his own business.” “Easy for you to say.” “Very easy. I enjoy telling men to mind their own business.” I smiled despite myself. Sophia came up beside me. “You like him.” “I know.” “You’ve liked him forever.” “I know.” “And he is painfully stupid.” “I know.” “So maybe tonight you let yourself look hot and enjoy it. If Brett notices, great. If he doesn’t, that’s his problem.” That sounded wonderful when she said it. My brain wasn’t quite as cooperative. Because I wanted him to notice. That was the embarrassing part. I wanted to walk into that party and have Brett look at me differently, even if it lasted only a few seconds. I wanted his eyes to stop on me the way I’d seen them stop on other women. God, that was pathetic. “I hate you,” I muttered. Sophia grinned. “You’re buying it?” “I didn’t say that.” “You’re buying it.” “I might return it tomorrow.” “You won’t.” “I return everything.” That was actually true. Trying clothes on in stores was annoying, so I usually bought things, tried them on at home, hated half of them, and returned them later. Sophia grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward the mirror again. “Look at yourself.” “I have been. That’s the problem.” “No. Actually look.” So I did. The woman staring back at me still had too much hair, too much chest, and more curves than the women Brett usually went after. But I didn’t look bad. I looked good. Maybe even hot. That thought felt strange enough that I immediately wanted to take the shirt off again. Sophia must have seen it in my face because she stepped between me and the curtain. “Nope.” “I haven’t said anything.” “You were about to escape.” “I need air.” “You need confidence.” “I need a cheeseburger.” “You can have one after we pay.” I groaned. “Fine.” Sophia squealed. “Do not make this a thing.” “Too late.” “And I’m wearing my normal jeans.” “Fine.” “And comfortable shoes.” “Fine.” “And if I hate it when we get back to the house, I’m changing.” “Absolutely.” She agreed much too quickly. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re annoying.” “And yet, I’m effective.” Twenty minutes later, I walked out of the store carrying a bag containing one black top I absolutely did not need. Sophia was already talking about makeup. I barely heard her. Because despite everything I’d said in that dressing room, one thought had followed me all the way to the register. I really wanted to see Brett’s face when he saw me.