I tell myself it’s just fun. I like poking at him, watching him get all stiff and irritated. It’s our thing.
But that doesn’t explain why I wanted him to stick around. Or why the counter suddenly feels too damn empty without him leaning on it.
Anoopa slides up beside me, crossing her arms, her expression already way too knowing.
“So… was he the reason you’ve been distracted?”
I shoot her a look. “He’s my teammate.”
She hums, her eyes on me, a knowing look in them. “He’s hot.”
I snort. “You think everyone’s hot.”
“Uh… excuse me.” She holds her hand up. “I have standards, thank you very much, and that guy is hot as hell.”
I shrug. “Not my type,” I lie straight through my teeth.
She rolls her eyes and turns, heading for the storage room, muttering something under her breath about me being blind.
I don’t answer. I just wipe down the counter again, even though it’s already clean.
Because she’s right.
He’s hot as fuck.
And I hate that I can’t stop noticing.
10
NATHAN
Practice is dragging today. My legs, arms, ass, thighs—everything burns, but I keep moving. I drop into position without thinking. Half of it is muscle memory, my body knowing what to do before my brain switches on.
Coach has us running breakouts again, and the pace hasn’t slowed since we hit the ice.
He hasn’t said it outright, but we know why we’re still out here. Last game was sloppy.
We won, technically, but it didn’t feel like a win. The third period was a mess. We eased up, started throwing lazy passes, and we were handing out odd-man rushes like freebies.
Coach didn’t need to say a word for us to know how pissed he was.
And with Westbrook on the schedule next weekend, “good enough” isn’t going to cut it. Not unless we want to get our asses kicked in front of a packed arena.
Coach wants us sharper. Cleaner. Dialed the fuck in.
And I am. I really am.
At least untilhecuts across the slot.
Logan glides through the middle, skating like he hasn’t a care in the world. He grins at me through the bars of his cage, sweat dripping down into his eyes.
“You planning on eating every shot today, Hayes?” he asks, his breath fogging in the air. “Or you gonna let us feel good about ourselves for once?”
A couple of the guys laugh because of course they do. Logan could say the sky is green and they’d eat it up and he soaks it in like he always does.
I track the puck as he moves it around the top of the zone, but when he coasts backward, my eyes follow him on instinct.
I sink a little deeper into my crease. “Try aiming better,” I mutter, tapping my stick against the ice.