Love Song(33)

“Can you please go to the library?” Wyatt grumbles at me.

“I could. Or…” I lift my phone and snap a picture of his unhappy face. “I can do this.”

Mumbling under his breath—something not very nice, I suspect—he skates to the blue line and spills a handful of pucks from the bucket onto the ice.

As unimpressed as I’ve always been with hockey (and hockey players), I can’t take my eyes off Wyatt. Watching him skate, I can see why Garrett wanted so desperately for his son to follow in his footsteps. Wyatt is deceptively slow. He moves with a lazy grace, almost seductive as he allows the goalie to grow accustomed to the insolent tempo, to grow complacent…before suddenly kicking into another gear, catching Miguel off guard by firing a dizzyingly fast bullet at the net.

Score.

For the next ten minutes, Miguel doesn’t make a single save. Sure, could be he’s the worst goalie on the planet, but I’ve been watching hockey my entire life. Miguel has skills. He’s got a fast glove. It’s just that Wyatt’s glove shots are faster. Miguel is quick with the pads, but Wyatt is quicker to find a slot and squeeze that puck in.

The rink echoes with the familiar sounds I grew up with. The sharp thwack of Wyatt’s stick striking the puck, followed by the dull thunk of it hitting the goalie’s pads. It’s hypnotic.

No, he’s hypnotic.

He moves with purpose. Fluid. Powerful. Every shot is deliberate, but he isn’t showing off. He’s just…focused. Sweat beads along his brow, and as always, I feel the urge to lick it off. This guy has triggered some sort of licking fetish in me. I’m always imagining dragging my tongue over his skin.

I track him through the plexiglass. For the first time since they hit the ice, Miguel stops the puck, knocking it away. Wyatt grins, and it’s boyish and light and tugs at my chest. It’s rare to see him smile like that. I’ve spent the past few days watching him brooding on the dock, his forehead furrowed as he tries to battle his writer’s block. Here, he actually appears to be having fun.

Although he’d probably yell at me for it, I start snapping pictures of him on the ice. I’m tempted to send them to Gigi, but I curb the impulse. It’s obvious he doesn’t want his family to know about this.

Which is wild to me. He should be proud of how good he is. At hockey, at music. I would kill to be that good at something. Instead, I’m just a passionless, talentless college chick who’s probably going to end up working a boring, soul-sucking nine-to-five after graduation while everyone around me shines in their chosen field.

When the chill in the air finally gets to me and the boredom sets in, I tuck my phone in my pocket and wave at Wyatt. He glides backward before pivoting, his skates scraping across the ice as he comes toward me.

“You taking off?” he calls.

“Yeah, I’m going to the library now.”

Nodding, he removes his glove and shoves his sweat-dampened hair away from his forehead. He is inconceivably attractive.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

He’s about to skate away when my brain decides to hijack my mouth.

“You hurt my feelings.”

He stops, pivoting again on his blades. A deep crease appears in his brow. “What?”

“You hurt my feelings,” I repeat, shifting my feet in discomfort. “Yesterday. You made me feel…small. And pathetic.” Shut the hell up, Blake, I scream at myself. But my emotions have taken the reins. “Like there’s something wrong with wanting to wear a pretty dress and go out.”

Wyatt visibly swallows.

“You made me feel like maybe I deserved to be cheated on,” I mutter, now staring at my sneakers. “Because I was so stupid and apparently didn’t see it coming.”

The silence from him drags, eliciting a rush of frustration. I find the courage to lift my gaze, only to be met with…nothing. His expression reveals absolutely nothing.

“Anyway.” I shrug. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

Still, he doesn’t speak.

Clenching my teeth, I step away from the plexiglass. Okay then. Screw you, asshole.

“Blake.”

I stop at the sound of my name, turning toward the glass.

“What?” I mutter.

Our eyes lock. When he speaks, his voice is low and husky.

“It won’t happen again.”





Chapter 9


BLAKE





WE BARELY SPEAK FOR THE rest of the day.

So much for Wyatt wanting to make it up to people whose feelings he hurt. Or maybe he only does that with his sister. Either way, Gigi was wrong. Telling him he hurt me only resulted in his ignoring me.

Now it’s nearly dinnertime, and I don’t know if I should cook enough stir-fry for two or fend for myself tonight. Wyatt’s been hanging out on the dock since we got back from our library excursion/top secret hockey practice.

I watch him from the window. He’s shirtless, hair damp as if he’d just had a swim. His guitar is balanced across his lap, and he’s writing in that worn notebook he always has on him.

From up here, he could be mistaken for peaceful. Relaxed. But he keeps shaking his head in disgust, which tells the real story. I saw him constantly do that on the boat yesterday, when he was unhappy with the words on the page.