I’m out before she can say anything else, my sneakers in one hand and my phone in the other.
The hallway outside is still dim and reeks of beer, which doesn’t help the pounding feeling in my head. I shove my hoodie on and it sticks to my back, and somehow there’s evenmoreglitter. I swipe at my sleeve, which only makes it worse.
I take the stairs two at a time, my stomach flipping with every step. I look like shit. Feel even worse.
And then the door swings open, and the sunlight hits me square in the face.
Perfect.
I squint against the sun and pull the hood over my head, like that’ll do anything. It doesn’t, though. Everything’s too bright,too loud, too much. My head’s pounding, my eyes sting, and my mouth feels like sandpaper.
Campus is quiet, which makes sense. It’s early as hell, and normal people are still asleep. The only things awake right now are birds and shit.
Two girls in yoga pants pass by, giving me once-overs.
I manage a grin. “Morning, ladies.”
They blush, and for half a second, I feel like less of a disaster. Yep. Still got it.
By the time I reach the rink, my legs feel like concrete, and if I’m honest, I’m probably still a little drunk. I stop at the double doors, drag in one long breath, and push inside.
And there he is.
Ryan.
Leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting specifically to be disappointed. Arms crossed, towel slung around his neck, that look on his face like I’m the bane of his existence.
“Seriously?” he says, ripping the towel off and tossing it at me. “You’re late again?”
I catch it and throw it right back. “What can I say? I like to make an entrance.”
He gives me a slow once-over. “You smell like a bar floor.”
“Feel like one too.” I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and immediately regret it.
Ryan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The guy should invest in Advil if he’s going to keep being friends with me. “I don’t even want to know.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Because I don’t remember.”
He shakes his head. “You good to skate?”
I stretch out one arm, then the other. “Sure,” I say with a shrug. A little hangover never stopped me before.
He squints, not buying it. Can’t blame him—I don’t buy it either. “If you puke on the ice, you’re cleaning it yourself.”
A laugh slips out. “Fair enough.”
I push open the locker room doors and spot the guys already suited up.
“Fucking finally,” Austin says. “Where the hell have you been?”
I start to answer, but I kind of get distracted when my eyes find Nathan.
He’s across the room, his helmet tucked under one arm, the rest of his gear already on like the responsible, broody bastard he is. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me, his expression flat, like I’m something he scraped off his skate blade.
I lift a brow. “Morning, Hayes.”
“Nice of you to join us,” he says, not even pretending to sound impressed.