Play Me

Mara

I wrinkle my nose as I run warm water over my knuckles, watching the pink water circle the drain and disappear.

Below me, I can hear the party in full swing. If my best friend didn't make me promise to come down, I would be changing into comfy pajamas and getting into my bed. Instead, I'm cleaning my knuckles up as I stand in a bra and underwear in our shared bathroom.

I pat my knuckles dry, wincing as I notice how badly bruised they already are. I will admit, punching the boards to scare that little midget who decided to try and trip me was not the best idea, considering I was already riled up from another fight.

Gingerly, I wiggle into a pair of jean shorts and a cute top that manages to hide my broad shoulders and allows me to look smaller.

Forgoing makeup, I pull my hair up into a messy bun on the top of my head and slip my feet into a pair of cute sandals before moving out of the bathroom and into my room.

The second I exit my room, I regret it. The music is booming from downstairs, people's voices swirling with the smell of alcohol.

It's not that I don't drink, I just don't like not being in control, which is funny coming from a hockey player who is known for getting in fights every other game.

I take a deep breath and force myself down the stairs and into the mob of people dancing around our living room. I spot Nat's bright red hair and begin making my way towards her when I run into a wall, my fist connecting with something hard, causing pain to shoot all up my arm.

Hissing in pain, I step away and double over, pressing my fist into my stomach to stop the stinging.

"Are you ok?" A rough voice asks, and I look up to and find the wall staring down at me, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Fine," I seeth, biting my tongue to keep from snapping at him. It's not even his fault.

Before I can react, he reaches down towards me and snatches my hand from my body, turning it to look at my knuckles, which are puffy and a dark mix of blue and purple that should not be on my hand.

"What did you do?" He snaps, still inspecting my hand.

I look up at him, intending to take my hand back, but I faulter. He has dark, curly hair springing around his head like it has a mind of its own and gray eyes that seem to stare into my soul. He is tall, well over 6 inches taller than me, with broad shoulders, his biceps almost bursting from his tight black tee.

"Nothing," I snap, trying to pull my hand back, but pain sparks, and I hiss through my teeth.

"Were you the girl who punched the boards earlier?" He asks, and I freeze.

"No," I snap. "I fell in the shower."

I shift from foot to foot. I want him to stop touching my hand in the stupid, tender, caring. It's not that I think he'll hurt me. No, it's more the fact that I hate physical touch that isn't hockey.

I deal with physical touch when I have to. There are some things that my hand just can't do, so I put up with it when I need an itch scratched. That's it. I didn't date in middle school or high school, and it was more likely you would find me on the rink that at my house or in class, which didn't always go over well.

"Hey Mars, how's that hand?.." Nat trails off as I shoot her a dark look.

"It's fine," I say, yanking my hand back from the stranger, ignoring the sharp pain, and turning to face my best friend.

"What's the liquor of the night?" I ask. I need to take the edge off.

"Someone brought some nice vodka," she says, tugging my unhurt hand and dragging me away from the guy.