Page 26

I t’s been a month since that weird ass party Brady and Quinn refuse to speak about no matter how much I pester them. Luckily I’ve had my own stuff to worry about. Stuff like organizing the SKISCO for Marty, which is much more tedious than I ever imagined it could be. Oh, and another little something called Lotte crushing my heart then shoving it and the rest of my horny body back into the friend zone. Which coincidentally, also happened a month ago. The same embarrassment and disappointment that colored her eyes when I did it to her at the ice rink, now what haunts mine.

It sucks.

It’s almost a near permanent feature too, as much to my sister’s chagrin, Lotte and I have hung out almost every day. Sometimes by design, sometimes by me stalking, I mean, accidentally coming across her in the library or at work.

You’re looking at the newest member of Beanz and Bookz frequent sippers club.

Though observing her study while trying to ignore me is fun. Watching Lotte whip up a triple shot mocha, caramel frappe, tongue poking from the side of her lip as she shakes the whipped cream frother thing, and the bounce it activates in her boobs, ah body, is hypnotic. Addictive. My new favorite thing. As well as titillating it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Like someone’s lit a small fire in the pit of my belly that’s heating me from the inside out twenty-four-seven. Thinking of it now, I can’t help but picture her cooking in our own kitchen one day, Noah junior bouncing on her hip.

Whoa.

That was.

Whoa.

That shit keeps happening. Images of her. Of us. Our future keeps popping into my mind. I’m so freaking gone for this girl, it’s not funny. I’ve also gained a few pounds from all those frappes.

If only Lotte was here to help me burn off those calories.

But she’s not. I’m actually studying in my room. Alone. I don’t like it and it’s made me wonder. Maybe spending all this time with someone, the one, who has me under her spell, isn’t such a good idea.

It kind of hurts.

Maybe it’s karma.

In junior high this cute girl, Rebekah Montez, asked me to prom. “A group of us are going,” she whispered into my ear during homeroom, her sweet smell tickling my nose. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Sure.” I’d said, “Sounds like fun.” And it did. I genuinely liked Bec, not only was she pretty and had blonde hair that smelled like strawberries, she played hockey, too. We used to practice together outside of training time and Bec always pushed me to go that little bit harder. Eight of us, including Shane and Brady’s tattooed nemesis Troye Becker, lived it up in the back of a limousine our parents chipped in to pay for. We danced till we could hardly walk, and I even snuck a wet and sloppy kiss in as we posed for our photo. For the entire night, we felt so grown up. So mature.

The same limo picked us up at ten on the dot. That’s when shit got real.

“I want a limousine like this for our wedding, Noah.”

“What. What. Our what?” The already squeaky pitch of my pubescent voice hit new levels of Kristen Chenowith as Bec lay out her plans for our future. Things only got worse from there. By the time we made it back to my house, Bec had picked our wedding date, named our four children and I was in a blind panic, breaking up with my future wife and jumping from the still moving vehicle.

Fuck. I’ve turned into Bec.

That horrifying thought enters my head space as my phone, laying on the quilt beside me, buzzes, Lotte’s face lighting up the screen.

“Play it cool, dude.” I mutter to myself as I clear my throat, “Wazzz uppp, Little D?”

Good lord. You dick.

“Wazzz up?” Lotte’s snort filled giggle is the cutest thing I have heard all day. “Have we gone back to the early 2000‘s? Should I dig out one of Mom’s old N’Sync tee’s?”

Yep this is totally worth making an idiot of myself.

Trying to remove the smile from my tone, I reply as dryly as I can. “Other than ridiculing my greeting, did you have a reason to call? I’m terribly busy.”

“Yes, yes I did, but I can’t quite remember it now.” A warm ache permeates my chest cavity, rapidly spreading south as the laughter continues. “Oh, Oh I know.” After a few settling breaths, Lotte’s calm enough to speak. “Years ago, Gran put me on a waiting list to see this specialist. He travels to Boston from New York once a year. They would call us each time he was in town, but we could never afford the appointment Anyway, I’ve been saving, and they called today. There’s a cancellation on Friday and I wondered if—”

“Yes!” Leaping to my feet, heart thundering, I almost scream my response. “Yes, I’ll drive you. What time?”

“It’s at four. I finish work at three, and I know you have training at five, and a game the next day, so it would be fine if you just drop me off and—”

“Nope.” I interrupt, switching the phone to speaker so I can text Coach as she speaks. “No way. I’ll pick you up from work. And don’t worry about training. Coach is always going on about turning us into responsible citizens that give back.”

“Give back?” There’s a pause, and not a silent one. No, this is filled with the kind of tutting and grumbling my sister makes when I’m … me. “I was asking as a friend, not a charity case.”

“I know you were, and you’re not. A charity case, I mean. But you are my friend, one of my best, and I’d do anything for you, Lotte. You know that right?” Dread fills my veins as I wait for her reply. Please don’t let me have fucked up again.

“You’re my best friend too.” The harsh flash of annoyance in her voice is gone, replaced by a timid, possibly embarrassed and cute as all hell sweetness that fries my brain. I have no chance to hide the smile now. Joy is infused into every word that flies from my mouth for the twenty minutes Lotte and I chat, and by the time she hangs up I feel that little bit more bewitched.

Hospitals, clinics, medical facilities are not a place I enjoy.

I hate them, actually. Watching Mom fade to a shadow within their walls left a scar I doubt will ever heal. But this for Lotte, and hospital or not, I’m pumped to have a whole afternoon of her. I leap down the stairs outside Conte Forum and head to the grassy patch across the drive. We’ve just finished a killer media training session, focusing on post-game interviews. Basically that means an hour of repeating every hockey cliche you’ve ever heard. I’m talking, w e gotta get the pucks in deep. Take one shift at a time. When you put the puck in the net, good things happen.

I freaking nailed it.

Brady did not.

Not only because he didn’t grow up immersed in the game like the rest of us did. It was his accent. Or rather, the facilitator’s opinion of his accent. She kept making him slow his rate of speech and pronounce his R’s and T’s. Something that’s apparently quite difficult for Aussies. It’s not just that, though. He was in a mood when he arrived and frankly, it’s bringing me down.

“Dude.” I attempt to nudge him down onto the grass with my shoulder, but he barely budges. “I know you’re going to miss me at practice, but it’s one session. Can you please just chill?”

Dropping to his feet, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a sandwich. “I’m not upset about stupid training. I do hate it when you’re not there, though. The guys don’t talk to me if you’re not around.” The latter is mumbled as Brady kicks an innocent stone. Then, as per usual, shoves his hand deep into his right pocket and begins to fiddle. As captain, I should be focused on his words. The team ignoring its own is not okay. But the pocket thing has to end.

“Right. That’s it.” I point to his pocket. “Pull it out.”

“Pull it out? What? What!” Wide eyes, he panics, drops his pre-training snack and blushes. I realize why and laugh.

“Not that, you idiot. Whatever the fuck is in your pocket. Pull it out.” Before he can stop me I sit beside him, grab his wrist and tug. Hard. His hand comes flying out and so does the last thing I expected. Trying not to laugh, I study what’s now in my palm. “Is this …?”

“Yes, it is and shut it. My sister gave it to me the game, I got my fifth straight shutout and was picked to come to the States. It’s my good luck charm.”

“Which sister? You have like, fifteen, and also, It’s a troll. An ugly, pink troll.”

“Her name is Princess Poppy—”

“Your sister’s name is Princess Poppy?”

“No, idiot. My sister is Sam. Poppy is the troll and if you must know, she’s not ugly. As trolls go she’s considered quite beautiful.” All if this is said with a look of unabashed seriousness I cannot cope with.

“Forgive me, your majesty.” I choke out as Brady snatches back the plastic piece of crap that really does fit the whole weird goalie vibe. “Or is it your Highness? One can never be certain when dealing with troll monarchy.” Scowling, he flips me the bird, picks up and dusts off his sandwich and takes a bite. It’s then, as he flicks a piece of grass off his crust, that I remember what we were talking about. “Wait. I humbly apologize to you and Poppy and request we start over. What’s eating your ass?”

He scoffs, “I wish.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I … Troye Becker. Troye Becker is eating my—” Brady blushes and rubs the troll, which is now my favorite euphemism. “Bothering me.”

“Because he’s dating Quinn?”

“Yes, and because of this.” Rolling to his side, he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out his phone. “I fucking hate him. The asshole keeps sending me photos when he scores. Each one has a smart mouth comment attached, and I fucking hate him.”

“So you said.”

“He thinks he’s so fucking hot, and he is. Like, mega-watt hot. But he’s good, too. Maybe the best forward in the league.” I’m not sure if Big D realizes he just called Becker hot, but his reaction is starting to make sense. Maybe Brady not only likes Quinn, but her new boyfriend too? I wonder if he even knows? “What the hell does Quinn see in this douche? Her dad will kill her if he finds out. Promises have been made, Noah. When she moved back in with her parents, jocks were forbidden and she agreed. It’s bloody disappointing, that’s what it is. Downright irresponsible, too.”

The monologue continues, only ending when the source of Brady’s ire, Troye Becker himself, appears before us.

As far as I know it’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the party and Big D is on his feet in a heartbeat, and if I thought he was big before, he’s massive now. Chest puffed. Fists clenched. Fury has inflated him. “What the hell are you doing on our campus, Becker?”

Instead of responding, Troye taunts. “Did you get my latest photo, Skippy? The one where I scored my hat-trick? That wink was just for you.”

“Answer the question, dick … and don’t call me Skippy.”

“You prefer Skip?”

I swear the Earth shifts with the tension pumping between them. Big D loses his shit fairly often and it’s normally freaking awesome, but this is next level. Kind of scary. I need to do something.

There is every chance I will get my face smashed in, but I rise, squeeze myself between the two hotheads who are now almost chest to chest. “Good to see you, dude.” Infusing my words with a smile, I place my hand on Troye’s chest and gently ease him back. “But maybe it’s best if you—”

“Rack off.” Brady finishes.

Troye and I share a, what the hell does rack off mean, look before I finish my train of thought. “Maybe it’s best if you leave.”

“With pleasure. I have to get going anyway. Got a party to plan and a man to see about a girl.” The hand I was pushing Troye away with, grips the bulldog printed in his BU varsity jacket.

“Please tell me you don’t mean Coach Harris.”

Brady scoffs so hard spit splatters onto my neck, and Troye glances to my clenched fist and grimaces. If I only knew him from his terrifying on-ice antics, I’d be worried. But we’ve played together or opposite each other since Juniors. Sure, Troye can be cocky, arrogant and fucking annoying, but it’s mostly an act. In truth he’s a decent guy who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Violence just slips into place when his skates do.

“Can’t do that, cause it is.” Folding forward he puckers up and slops a wet kiss to my knuckles as he wriggles free. “Later losers.”

Brady and I watch as he saunters away, head down, hands wizzing over his phone screen. I sigh, then pat Brady on the back. “Looks like you won’t need to worry about him and Quinn for long. That’s a dead man walking.”