Classic Mallory Lane. Three exclamation points, and zero acknowledgment that her son got his skull cracked open by a teammate three weeks ago.
But that's the Lane family way, isn't it?
Dust yourself off. Smile pretty. And get back on that fucking ice before anyone notices you were bleeding.
I type back a quickAll good!and shove the phone away before the hollow feeling can settle.
Not today, brain. We're doinghappytoday.
I round the corridor, and somewhere deeper in the building, past the framed jerseys and the giant photograph of Samuel Voss — Snow Leopard's captain and eternal hardass — looking stiff as hell, I can hear the sound of blades cutting ice and the sharp crack of pucks meeting sticks.
The muffled shrill of a whistle rings out, followed by the thunder of the Snow Leopards running their morning practice drills.
Without me.
Three weeks ago, I was out there with them… flying down the right wing, threading passes through traffic, making defenders look stupid and loving every second of it.
Now I'm standing in a corridor in my tracksuit, preparing to grovel and bargain my way through a medical assessment just to be allowed back on the roster.
I flex my fingers at my sides, rolling my shoulders the way the physio taught me.
Everything still aches. Like my entire body is a house that's settling after a storm, and every joint and muscle is reminding me thathey, remember when Gabe Devereaux rearranged your skeletal structure? Good times.
But as I pause in the corridor, one hand on my hip, it's not just skates that I hear. There's a pulsating thump of bass bleeding from the locker room, too.
“Oh, for the love of…” I mutter to the empty hall. "No way."
The music bleeds through the entire building, from the locker room all the way along the corridors. My smile instantly falters.
That’s notmyplaylist. That’s notmypre-practice pump-up mix I spent an embarrassing amount of time on.
No, that bassline is aggressivelysynthetic. The beat is something you’d hear in a nightclub. A nightclub that serves drinks with tiny umbrellas and charges twenty-seven dollars for the privilege of stepping on their sticky floors.
And there’s only one musical terrorist in this building who would dare mess with my music choices.
Cade Jensen.
That asshole has absolutely, one-hundred-percent hijacked my goddamn Bluetooth speaker.
“That's it. It's time to reclaim my kingdom,” I announce to my reflection, adjusting my purple Leopards jacket.
I stride towards the medical wing, ready to get the all clear and wage war on Jensen's terrible taste in music, when I round the corner and nearly collide with a rolling cart loaded with bakery boxes.
"Oh my God.Colt?!"
Zoey Morrison stops mid-step, one hand steadying the cart, the other brushing a loose strand of dark hair from her face. She's wearing her signature green Butter Batch apron over a sweater, and there's a smudge of chocolate on her collarbone that I absolutely do not stare at.
Okay, I stare a little.
"What are you—" She gives me the once over with those big beautiful eyes. "I didn't know you were coming back today."
"Surprise!" I spread my arms wide, flashing my most charming grin. After three weeks alone…God, that feels good."Miss me?"
She doesn't answer that. Instead, her gaze traces the fading bruise around my eye, then moving slowly to the thin scar I'm fairly certain the girls are going to go wild for.
"You look…" She pauses, searching for the right word.
"Devastatingly handsome? Ruggedly heroic? Like a man who's been through war and somehow emerged even sexier?"