Vulnerability nags at the edges of my mind, and I shove down the last thought.
“You and I didn’t do much talking.” One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was giving her a hat trick on the edge of a sink. Not a lot of words were exchanged in the process.
An adorable flush creeps across her cheekbones, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. “Pretty sure neither of us would’ve done that if we’d known who the other person was. I don’t date hockey players.” She clears her throat and juts her chin, squaring her shoulders. “Or fool around with them. Athletes aren’t my type. Plus, Chase would flip out.”
That stings a little, but she’s right. I’d be six feet under within the hour.
“Let’s start over,” I offer. “Pretend it never happened. And I think we can both agree we don’t need to tell your brother.”
“Agreed on both points.” Seraphina’s posture softens and she offers me a smile, but it’s weak. She hesitates, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “We can still be friends, can’t we? I don’t know anyone at Boyd other than Chase and my friend Abby, and it’d be nice to have another person to hang out with once in a while. Unless you think that would be weird…”
If she were anyone else, I would shut down this suggestion immediately. Not only am I not in the habit of befriending former one-night stands, but the number of people I’m close to can be counted on hand—and I barely have enough time for them as it is.
Her warm brown eyes gleam with uncertainty as she looks at me, waiting for a response. She looks so hopeful; so vulnerable. I can’t bring myself to say no—even if saying yes feels like skating on dangerously thin ice.
Against my better judgment, I cave. “Sure, Tink.”
CHAPTER 4
DRY SPELL
TYLER
“Why so quiet, fucker?” Chase shoots me a questioning look as we step inside the glass double doors of Northview Arena’s main entrance.
It’s a fair question. I wasn’t exactly good company during the drive to practice. I simply stared out a window while a chorus of “you’re fucked” played through my brain on repeat to the melody of the national anthem.
“Thinking about practice,” I tell him instead. “Mark is breathing down my neck about my puck tracking and rebounds.” Just one reason of many I can’t afford any distractions—especially not in the form of a pink-haired girl I’ve thought about more than I care to admit.
My reticence wouldn’t be quite as obvious if Dallas wasn’t checked out. As alternate captain, he always grills us about our practice plan and game strategy on the way to the arena. If you looked up “Type A personality” in the dictionary, there’d be a headshot of Dallas Ward in his hockey gear. He’s been unusually preoccupied today, immersed in some kind of back-and-forth sexting marathon with his girlfriend, Siobhan.
“You sure that’s all?” Chase presses.
“Yeah.”
Not even a little. I’m still reeling from Seraphina’s identity revelation, unsure how to handle being “friends,” and stressed as fuck about the possibility of the truth getting out.
In addition, I’m stressed about being stressed. Playing goal means my mental game has to be top tier. Over the years, I’ve carefully honed the ability to shake off errors without falling apart. Even blowout losses don’t faze me as much as they did when I was younger. I don’t give a shit about most things that happen on or off the ice. I’ve specifically trained myself not to. So why does this situation have me so rattled?
Chase’s attention lingers on me, evidently unsatisfied with my response. “Are you pissed about my sister moving in? Like I said, it’ll be temporary. Probably a couple of weeks at the most.”
“All good. Seraphina can stay as long as she needs.” My reply comes out a little too quick and a lot too eager. A thin sheen of sweat forms on the back of my neck beneath the fabric of my black T-shirt, the collar tightening around my throat. What the fuck is going on? I never act like this.
“I think you’ll like her once you get to know her,” he adds.
If only he knew.
Because I can’t trust myself to behave normally, I forgo any additional verbal responses and merely grunt in assent. We move through the room, greeting the rest of the team as we pass. Dallas, still entranced by his phone, wordlessly trails behind.
Chase snickers, shrugging out of his zip-up hoodie. “Are you cranky because you’re having a dry spell?”
“It’s not a dry spell.” Contrary to what his needling might suggest, my recent hiatus from sex has been fully self-inflicted. My encounter with Seraphina at XS was top fucking tier—and it demolished my interest in anyone else after. I took it as a sign I was spread too thin and decided to focus on other things for awhile. Or on one thing, rather: hockey.
At any rate, I’ve ignored several booty call texts since getting back into town, including one with a topless sneak peek photo attached. I could easily get laid if I wanted to. But I haven’t wanted to, and I’m not sure what that says about me.
“Whatever you say, Ty.” Chase’s gaze flicks over to Dallas, who’s standing next to us in a daze and still hasn’t removed a single item of his street clothing. At this rate, practice will start and finish without him even noticing. “Quit thirsting over your girlfriend and get dressed, Ward. Miller is gonna bag skate us if you make practice start late.”
Unsurprisingly, Dallas doesn’t respond. Chase leans over and shoves him. I snort a laugh as Dallas loses his balance, nearly collides with his equipment stall, and staggers half a step before steadying himself. His head jerks up, his mouth pulled into a sheepish grin.
“Shiv’s been in Florida for the past week,” he protests, putting away his cell. “That’s a long time.”
Chase narrows his eyes, shaking his head. “You whipped motherfucker.”
“Like you’re one to talk.” Dallas flips him off.
Much to my relief, they start discussing the couple’s trip they’re planning for Valentine’s Day next month because they are, in fact, both whipped motherfuckers. This change in subject spares me any additional questions about my sex life or lack thereof, so I’m not complaining.
Tuning out their talk about flowers and wine and other shit they’ve got planned, I turn away and pretend to be focused on getting into my gear to deter anyone else from making conversation. Fortunately, my resting “fuck off” face is strong, and no one attempts to engage.
As I lace up my skates, my thoughts circle back to Seraphina. The basement is solely my domain, and I’m not used to having anyone else in my space. This means I’ll have to make a few adjustments, like no more naked trips to the bathroom. Or naked sleeping in general, I guess.
Then again, Chase described her as a social butterfly and claimed she was rarely ever home. Maybe that means this clusterfuck will be a little easier to navigate.
With my luck, probably not.
“Oh, shit. Did you guys see Coach’s email?” The urgency in Dallas’s voice snaps me out of my thought spiral. When I glance up, he’s clutching his phone again, staring at it in disbelief.