He Shoots, She scores

Chapter Thirteen: Gracie | Mission Accomplished

I have no intention of going to jail, but at this moment, the urge to murder Weston is tempting. What that ass said to me the other night was unacceptable. Trying to control who I can date. Telling me to stay away from John. Implying that I wasn't one-night stand material. Saying that I should hook up with him in order to prove it. I mean, what was that about?

My face- and my entire body- is still burning. There are just too many emotions rising high tonight. We need to start implementing rules and boundaries between us. Like, for one, he cannot step that close to me ever again. Two, he is not allowed to do that thing again where he holds his arms above the doorframe. And three- he is most certainly, 100%, never allowed to dictate who I can and cannot spend my time with.

I have Nessa on facetime with me. After I told her about the whole Weston fiasco, she said that in true feminist fashion, it was my duty to prove Weston wrong. According to Nessa, this means dressing up hot purely because I can. So, we spend an hour over the phone together, me showing her the dozens of 'sexy' outfits I've picked out. It doesn't take too long to settle on a final outfit considering that half of my wardrobe is just a variation of overalls in differing shapes and colors. We decide on a tight black leather skirt with a white corset tucked underneath. And because the fall weather is around the corner, I have a loose blazer layered on top.

In the bathroom, I get out my makeup stand and spend a good hour in there perfecting a makeup look that's very different from my usual appearance. Before, I would go for a 'girl next door' vibe, but now, with Nessa's help over, I've mastered an 'I go to clubs for fun and get random boys to make out with me' look. From my perspective it doesn't seem like I've undergone a drastic transformation, but Nessa claims that I'm 'unrecognizable.'

I even blow my hair out so it's an equal amount of classy yet messy. I tug on some knee-high black boots before I'm out the door. After taking one last glimpse in the reflection, it looks like I'm attending a Louise Vuitton fashion show rather than heading to the ice rink. But I look ah-mazing, and that's all that matters.

Listen- I normally would never go all out like this to impress a boy. But today, it's not about that. This is purely about pissing off Weston. Today, my middle name is 'petty.'

I leave my makeup purposely strewn all over the counter and leave my breakfast dishes over the table. And just to tip off the iceberg, I start taping over next week's hockey games with my 'trashy' rom-coms (his words, not mine) as well.

I strut into the campus arena and spot a blur of hockey players whizzing about on the ice. Half of them are in helmets, half aren't. When I'm close enough, I catch the attention of some boys already. I keep my gaze forward though, pretending like I don't notice, when internally I'm doing my happy dance. Take that, Weston! I'm positive I'm not supposed to be in here, but it doesn't seem like anyone cares. I walk right up to the edge of the rink, leaning my forearms on the post. The coach is oblivious to me, instead hyper-focused on his team's footwork. "SKATE FASTER, JONES! LOOSEN UP YOUR FEET, SINGH!"

There are some younger guys on the team, freshman, I can tell, who catch sight of me and lose balance. Just for fun, I wink and that does it. One of them crashes into the wall.

This catches the attention of some other guys. I hear someone whistle. Someone else goes, "Who in good golly is that?"

Jersey #15 right in front of me. His back is facing me, but at the disappearance of his team's attention, he glances over his shoulder to see what's happened. Weston locks eyes with me. Through the grid of his helmet, I spot his expression changing from neutrality to irritation. And when his eyes roam further down, that annoyance transforms to fury. Checkmate.