ESCAPE
1236 Words
Escaping the arena was the absolute only thing on my mind after that disastrous locker room confrontation, so I grabbed my duffel bag and practically sprinted to my car to avoid talking to anyone else. The drive back to the Northwood campus was completely quiet because I refused to turn on the radio, preferring the absolute silence of the cab while my hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to make my knuckles ache. Once I finally reached my dorm building, I bypassed the common room entirely and headed straight for my suite, unlocking the door and dropping my heavy gear just inside the entryway. The space was completely empty since my roommate was out studying at the library for the weekend, and the privacy provided an immense amount of necessary relief.
Stripping out of my clothes took only a few seconds, and I kicked the damp practice gear into a corner before stepping into the small bathroom attached to my room. I turned the shower dial all the way past the red indicator because I needed the water to be as hot as physically possible to soothe my tense muscles. Stepping under the scalding spray, I let the intense heat wash over my exhausted body, tilting my head back while the water cascaded down my chest and back. I grabbed a bar of cedarwood soap and began scrubbing my skin vigorously, working the thick lather over my arms and shoulders while trying desperately to erase the lingering scent of Michael's icy cologne from my collarbone and neck.
No matter how hard I scrubbed, my body still hummed with the physical memory of his large hands, and my lips tingled constantly whenever I thought about the wet, demanding kiss he had delivered right in front of the entire hockey team. I was supposed to be furious that he had humiliated Liam, yet my traitorous mind kept replaying the dark, possessive look in Michael's eyes when he claimed me as his own. He had told Miller to back off in a tone that completely lacked any pretense, and the absolute authority in his voice had sent a heavy, unwanted heat straight to my stomach. I stood under the running water for another twenty minutes, washing my hair carefully and letting the bathroom fill entirely with thick steam until my skin turned a flushed, angry pink.
Turning off the faucet finally, I grabbed a clean white towel from the metal rack and wrapped it securely around my waist before stepping out into the cooler air of my bedroom. The digital clock on my nightstand displayed six-fifteen, meaning I had less than forty-five minutes to figure out how to look presentable for the most expensive restaurant in the city. I walked over to my cramped closet and pushed the sliding door open, staring blankly at the meager selection of clothes hanging inside the tight space. Most of my wardrobe consisted of team hoodies, worn-out denim jeans, and basic cotton t-shirts, which were absolutely unacceptable for an upscale establishment such as The Sterling Room. I owned exactly one formal suit that my mother had bought me for a cousin's wedding two years ago, but the jacket was tight across my broad shoulders and the dark blue fabric felt incredibly stiff and uncomfortable against my skin.
Pulling the suit out from the back of the closet, I tossed it onto the edge of my mattress and let out a long, frustrated sigh. Going on this mandated PR date was already a massive psychological burden, and having to dress up in uncomfortable clothing only made the situation infinitely worse. I reached up to run a hand through my damp hair, glancing over at the full-length mirror attached to the back of my wooden door. The dark, purple bruise Michael had sucked into the side of my neck earlier that morning was glaringly obvious against my pale skin, and the collar of the dress shirt was definitely not high enough to hide the mark from the cameras or the paparazzi who would undoubtedly be waiting outside the restaurant to photograph us.
Before I could even begin to panic about the highly visible hickey or figure out a way to cover it up, three sharp, authoritative knocks echoed loudly from my dorm room door. I froze completely, staring at the wooden panel while my heart rate spiked heavily in my chest. Nobody ever knocked on my door on a Saturday evening unless it was Miller looking to borrow a textbook or grab some leftover food, but Miller was still back at the arena dealing with the coaching staff. I walked slowly across the carpeted floor, keeping a firm grip on the knot of my towel to ensure it stayed secure, and reached out to twist the brass doorknob.
Pulling the heavy door open, I stopped breathing entirely.
Michael Rossi stood in the brightly lit hallway, looking utterly devastating in a perfectly tailored, charcoal-grey suit that hugged his broad shoulders and tapered flawlessly at his waist. He wore a crisp black dress shirt underneath the jacket, with the top two buttons undone to reveal the strong column of his throat, and his dark hair was styled back with just enough product to keep it looking effortlessly neat. He held a sleek, black garment bag in his left hand, and his dark eyes slowly dragged all the way down my bare chest to the edge of my white towel before snapping back up to meet my gaze directly.
"You are running late, Axel," Michael stated smoothly, stepping forward and forcing me to back up into the room so he could enter my private space without waiting for an invitation.
"I am not running late at all," I argued quickly, closing the door firmly behind him so none of the other students in the hallway would see him standing inside my bedroom. "Coach Gregory said we had to be at the restaurant at seven o'clock, and it is only six-thirty right now. I was just about to put my clothes on and drive over there."
"You were actually going to put that on?" Michael asked, gesturing dismissively toward the cheap, outdated suit lying crumpled on my bed. "Absolutely not. The paparazzi are going to photograph every single inch of us tonight, and I refuse to let my boyfriend walk into a five-star dining room wearing a cheap, ill-fitting outfit from two years ago."
"It is the only formal clothing I own," I defended myself, crossing my arms defensively over my bare chest while trying to ignore the suffocating, expensive scent of his cologne filling my small room. "And you do not get to just barge into my personal dorm room and dictate what I wear to this fake dinner."
Michael let out a low, dark chuckle, tossing the black garment bag directly onto my desk before taking a slow, deliberate step closer to me. He reached out and wrapped his long, warm fingers around my bare upper arm, sliding his strong grip down until he was holding my wrist firmly in his hand.
"I told you exactly what would happen if you went home and tried to hide from me," Michael whispered, tilting his head and looking at me with a thrilling, predatory gleam in his dark eyes. "Did you really think I was joking when I said I was coming over here to dress you myself?"
- Writer
