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Olive looks at the hand I extend out to her for a minute before accepting it and letting me pull her off the bench. “Thank you.”

I brush my lips against her forehead. “You don’t need to thank me, Olive.”

Her palm squeezes mine as if to say,I do, though.

*

If I werea jealous man, I wouldn’t like the way Olive is staring at Nelson. But I know the admiration in her eyes has more to do with his stats than the pretty boy’s looks.

Pointing at her chin, I say, “You’ve got a little drool there.”

She flips me off. “I do not. He’s played over eight hundred games and scored almost three hundred goals. And fifty of those were game winning.”

I didn’t even know the exact numbers, but I’m not surprised she does. “His stats are impressive,” I admit, guiding her towardthe table. “He’ll be in the top one hundred best defensemen of all time before he retires.”

She nods. “No doubt.” Her lips kick up mischievously. “Of course, he’ll be after Sebastian.”

I chuckle. “Of course,” I appease her.

When we get to the booth, everybody quiets down. “Boys,” I greet, keeping my hand on the small of Olive’s back. I can tell she’s buzzing with anticipation, which makes me smile to myself. “This is Olive. Olive, the boys.”

“You not going to introduce us to your friend?” Moskins asks, grinning.

“Trust me, you don’t need to be introduced,” I inform him, gesturing for Miller to scoot in to make room for Olive and me.

She glances at the booth with her bottom lip between her top two teeth, then the rest of the guys briefly, before choosing to take the only seat left at the end of the table. She pays me no attention when I slide into the spot next to Miller, choosing to address Moskins instead. “You’re a right wing with a pretty impressive PPG over the past two seasons. I’ll give you that. What is it now? A one-point-one-nine?”

His brows go up, and that slick grin that he shoots women quirks up the corners of his mouth. I’m tempted to slap it off him. “Someone did their homework before coming here.”

Olive sits back in her chair. “I didn’t need to. And I wouldn’t get too high and mighty, those kind of stats wouldn’t even make you top five. Maybe the top ten.”

His eyes narrow. “You know someone better in the NHL right now?”

“Bodhi Hoffman has a one-point-four-eight points per game average over his last season alone,” she tells him matter-of-factly. “He’sin the top five.”

As much as I hate hearing Hoffman’s name, it’s humorous to see Moskins’ reaction.

“You do realize they’re saying I’m one of the best shots in the league, right?” he asks her defensively.

Olive shrugs like she doesn’t really care. She probably doesn’t, either. To her, stats are stats. “I think you’re a good player, so I’m not shocked they’re saying that.”

Clarkson smacks Moskin’s back. “You can’t have every woman fawning over you, dude. Sometimes you need to give your ego a break so other guys can get a chance.”

A few of the guys snicker.

He grumbles under his breath, finishing the rest of the beer in front of him. “Hoffman ain’t that impressive. More people talk about his looks than his slap shot.”

Olive appeases him. “You’re not wrong. He’s always been more of a wrist shot kind of guy.”

Miller snorts at the comeback.

Moskins clenches his glass. “You would know that intimate information, wouldn’t you?”

Clarkson clears his throat. “Enough.”

Before the right wing can speak up, I say, “I don’t want to hit anyone tonight, Moskins, so be careful what your next words are going to be.”

Thankfully, he chooses to close his mouth.