Love Song(32)

“No, I’m gonna have a cigarette first. Is that allowed?” With a surly look, he fishes his smokes out of his pocket, then shoves one in the corner of his mouth while he searches for a lighter.

“Whatever.” I hike up my bag. “All right. I’ll see you in two hours.”

“Sounds good.”

I saunter toward the library, but for some reason, everything about…whatever that was…has triggered my suspicions. He was definitely acting strange. Wyatt’s way cooler than that. I swear he was even fidgeting when he was putting the cigarette in his mouth.

On a hunch, I enter the library but stop in the small vestibule at the doors. Then I twist around to peer at the parking lot.

Oh yeah. Wyatt’s up to something.

He stamps the barely smoked cigarette with his sneaker before walking to the trunk. I narrow my eyes when he hauls out a large black duffel bag. It’s a very familiar bag.

Bag over his shoulder, he stalks across the lot toward the enormous, boxy building with metal siding and a slate-gray roof. At the sports arena’s entrance, the glass doors are cloudy with condensation from the air inside.

I dart out of the library and hurry after Wyatt. He has earbuds in, so he doesn’t hear me coming. I catch up to him just as he slides through the doors.

He jolts when I grab his arm, spinning around. His expression darkens with displeasure when he sees me. Very deliberately, he presses a button on his phone, I assume to shut his music off.

“You’re playing hockey!” I accuse.

“Go away,” Wyatt grumbles.

“Does your father know?”

“No. And I don’t want him to. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“I don’t understand. You hate hockey.”

“I don’t hate hockey. I like hitting the ice and shooting some pucks. Or playing for fun like the Boxing Day Beatdown or our family shootouts. I just never wanted to play professionally.”

“Why are you hiding it?”

“Because I know my dad. He’ll get way too excited about this. Read more into it than it actually means.”

“Oh, God forbid we please our parents.”

He gives me a dirty look. “Blake.”

“Wyatt,” I mimic.

Sighing, he takes off walking again while I trail after him like an eager puppy wanting to play ball with its owner.

“Go away,” he says over his shoulder.

“No, I want to watch you play.”

“Since when? You’re the one who hates hockey.”

“I don’t hate it either. I’m indifferent,” I say. “But now I’m invested. It’s not every day I get to see the Wyatt Graham on the ice.”

We reach the men’s locker room, where he stops to glare at me again. “What? You gonna follow me into the lockers too?”

I think it over. “If I wait out here, are you going to try to sneak out the back so I don’t witness you playing hockey?”

“It’s a risk.”

My gaze shifts back to the door, bringing a grin to Wyatt’s face.

“You’re not coming in there,” he warns.

“Why? Because I might see your dick?”

He simply sighs again, but I can see him trying not to laugh. “Oh my God. Just fuck off.”

At that, he ducks into the locker room, and because I do have some etiquette and wasn’t raised by wolves, I head to the rink instead. It seems to be some sort of free hour, because there’s nobody out on the ice save for a fair-haired man teaching his son how to skate. The boy can’t be older than four, and he’s literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in his puffy blue coat and tiny black skates.

Sometimes I wonder if my dad wishes he’d had a son he could share his hockey love with. Instead, he got me, a stubborn girl who only wanted to read books or watch football. To Dad’s credit, if he ever did resent it, he never once showed it. In fact, he went above and beyond to bond with me. The man who doesn’t love reading read all the books for my freshman literature class so he could discuss them with me and help me study.

My dad’s pretty great.

Rather than sit in the stands, I find a spot in front of the plexiglass and stand there. Hugging my arms against the chill, I watch my breath puff out in the cold air. I’ve spent my whole life in ice rinks, but I’ll never love it the way my father does.

Not long after, Wyatt enters the arena. He’s not in full padding, but he does wear a helmet, a black practice jersey, and hockey pants. And he’s enormous on skates, I realize. The blades add a couple inches to his already commanding height.

Eyeing me in irritation, he snaps his helmet into place, then pushes the low wooden door that opens onto the ice. A minute later, he’s joined by another man, this one in full pads. Goalie gear.

I walk along the plexi, trailing the two guys toward one end of the rink where a net is already set up. The newcomer drops a bucket of pucks on center ice before skating with a very reluctant Wyatt in my direction.

“Blake,” Wyatt says gruffly, his voice a tad muffled behind the glass. “This is Miguel. He plays for the local men’s league. Miguel, this is Blake. Family friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, smiling at Miguel.

“Likewise!” Unlike Wyatt, this guy actually smiles back, flashing his dimples before gliding toward the net and dropping into a slutty butterfly stretch.