Page 7

Chapter 7

Nat

The Dingoes’ new player—the one slated to replace our current fucking captain—is the boy from the bar. My ghost. The one I shouldn’t want, the one I can’t seem to banish into the ether where he belongs.

The one I can’t stop tasting on my tongue.

How much more impossible will it be to forget with him in that locker room, his smooth, dark skin on full display. That wide slice of white smile beaming out, those dark eyes sparkling beneath the steep arch of his brows. His scent—like strawberries and faded coffee—just brushing my senses.

Maybe that’s why, when the team takes the ice, I follow the telltale scrape of blades and crash of pucks and climb the stairs into the bleachers. To say I’m curious what he looks like on the ice would be an understatement.

It doesn’t take long to realize that Olli James reads hockey the way I read music—from the very depths of his soul.

Coach runs the players through passing and positioning drills with their linemates. And even though Olli’s never played with Charlie or Devereaux before, he integrates seamlessly with their style.

The way he moves, the way he reads the puck, the players, the way he anticipates the movement of every person on the ice—teammate and opponent alike—it’s almost otherworldly, uncanny. Like he inherently knows what’s going to happen .

I haven’t seen anybody skate like that since Jesse.

When Coach starts dividing players up for a scrimmage, nerves clutch my stomach. I’m realizing all over again how much rides on this team.

On the young man who now crouches at the center face-off dot. The one who was brought here to fill the void my brother left when he fucked off to Boston with barely a backwards glance.

This man, and Charlie and Devereaux on either side of him, Andy Everton across the face-off dot. All of these people control my destiny, but it’s Olli James who leads them.

And this moment will determine how well. My eyes trail across his broad shoulders as he and Everton crouch on either side of the center dot. Coach lifts the puck between them. Everton’s tensed, ready for that puck to drop, but Olli?

Calm.

Maybe his calm seeps into me, because I relax, watching him, drinking in his confidence, his surety. The world narrows down to a beautiful stop-motion of precise movement.

The puck twitches from Coach’s fingers. It barely breaks inertia at gravity’s beckoning before Olli surges forward into Everton, holding him back.

Clearing a path for Dev to dart in behind him to swoop up the puck.

Dev breaks forward, and Olli flits away from Everton to follow his winger. He leaps forward as Dev sweeps over the blue line and into the zone—perfectly timed to receive Dev’s pass and leave the opposing defenseman looking in the wrong direction.

Olli’s wrist snaps.

Goalie Adyn drops—too late.

The puck sails past him into the net.

Shit, he’s phenomenal. Even wrapped in my own worry, I can appreciate how he excels at everything having to do with this game—his feet on the ice, his hands on the stick, his eyes reading the play, his entire being weaving through the game like a dolphin through an ocean, like he owns this ice and everything on it .

How is he still in this league?

And how have I never noticed him before? I can barely tear my eyes away as he skates for the bench, as he hops over, light as air, to squirt water onto his face from one of the bottles tucked against the boards.

From my invisible place in the stands, I force my eyes from the water beading down Olli’s cheeks with almost physical effort. Why can’t I stop fucking looking at him, watching him?

He’s magnificent on the ice. And he, Charlie, and Dev put on a breathtaking display of synergy—like his every move complements theirs. They weave through the defense, Olli flanking Dev’s strides for a drop pass, or Charlie cutting in for a one-timer Olli delivers directly to his tape.

It’s like art. Like poetry. Like fucking music.

I feel like I’m struggling to catch my breath as the team files off the ice and I head back to get the Zam ready.

“Taylor.” My name drifts down the hall, and I know who it belongs to without turning. Coach Ethan hustles to catch me as I slide into the back room.

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hanging in, Taylor?” Coach props a shoulder against the door frame, but doesn’t quite angle his body towards me. “How’s your daughter? She’s been looking good at practice lately.”

“Still watching high school?” I chuckle, even though I know this is just small talk—the prelude to the main conversation. “Reliving the glory days?”

“Right.” He snorts. “Because coaching you was glorious. There’s some decent kids out there, though. Gotta keep my eye on the talent.”

“Sure.” I start the Zam’s engine, let it rumble to life before I finally turn towards Coach. “So, you firing me yet? Or are you gonna wait and see if your new boy makes a difference?”

Coach’s eyes slide sideways, away from mine. “I’m not firing you yet, but you know when I gotta make more budget cuts . . . I can’t justify having someone on the staff who literally just sharpens skates. ”

When , not if.

He has about as much faith as I do.

I nod. “Yeah, I know.”

“Maybe it’s a sign—”

I heave open the Zam door with a reverberating clunk. “One more person tells me to move on and focus on the repo biz, I’m gonna quit repoing altogether.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. I won’t say it. But maybe think about why you’re hearing it from so many people.”

I don’t respond. Haul myself up onto the Zam and guide it out onto the ice, where I can lose myself in the concentration of the task—its own kind of art—for ten minutes. But of course, my mind won’t stay where it belongs.

Coach brought Olli on to save this team. But even though he’s easily the most skilled player we’ve had here in years, I doubt it’ll be enough. I should cut my losses now—walk away from this team, this job, this rink. Take JB up on his partnership offer. Throw my energy into something that will make me money. That I can grow into something real .

I’m just climbing from the Zam when the buzz of my phone draws me back to the rink. Maybe it’s a sign from the universe—JB with a new job.

But no.

It’s an invitation to this week’s Ice Out.

The thought makes my head spin. Turns my blood effervescent. For all that everyone tells me it’s time to move on, for all that I know how much more awaits me outside the world of the ice . . . I know I can never truly turn my back on it.

Maybe that’s why I head back to the Dingoes’ locker room.

The team’s a messy, sweaty, rowdy mass of bodies, shouts, elbow pads, tape, sticks, and bad music. Most still sit in their cubbies, undressing, though a few have already hit the open showers at the back.

Charlie’s talking to Devereaux—the wild gesticulations of his hands indicating it’s more of a debate than a conversation—and across the locker room, three other skaters fling pieces of clear tape at one another, shrieking like deep-voiced banshees. Everton fiddles with the stereo while Skyler Johnson hovers over his shoulder, yelping his disapproval.

I linger near the doorway, and naturally, my gaze gravitates towards the corner, where Olli sits between Charlie and that empty cubby.

My eyes beg to be allowed to linger.

To study the soft curve of his jaw, the delicate angle of his cheekbones and nose, his pretty, almost feminine features. His athletic frame and thick muscles are lither than my own hardened body; he looks more like he should be modeling swimsuits or cologne than playing pro sports.

I bet the puck bunnies go wild for him.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop wanting to look, to revisit the moment between us despite his wish to pretend it never happened. It was an accident, a stumble of my own compromised mind. Something that wouldn’t have, if not for the booze in my blood.

Right?

Don’t know why, but I head for the empty seat. Plop down. “Anybody need skates sharpened?”

“What, you lookin’ for a tip, Taylor?” Charlie cracks a grin, tips his head to toss his blond hair back.

I roll my eyes at his clear—and bad—punning. “Yeah, not that kind of tip, buddy.”

“Yo, did you see that practice?” Clearly not dissuaded by my lack of appreciation for his turn of phrase, Charlie aims his grin at Olli. “James ain’t too bad.”

“Not at all,” I agree.

“Shucks, guys.” Olli’s mouth slants in a crooked smile. “You’re gonna make me blush.”

Why do I feel suddenly lightheaded?

“You coming with us to Rover’s?” Paul angles out from Charlie’s other side to talk to Olli. I shrink back into the vacant cubby, removing myself from team conversation out of habit .

“Rover’s?” Olli swipes his jersey over his head, then leans forward, elbows to knees, to talk to Paul.

For some reason, that just invites my eyes to explore places they shouldn’t—like the patch of exposed skin between the top of his hockey pants and the bottom of his shoulder pads. A narrow strip of smooth, unblemished skin I shouldn’t notice, except I do.

Just like I note the dark ink pressed along his spine, a whisper of lines and curves, the image too covered for me to discern before it disappears under his pads.

“Team restaurant,” I say, maybe just to force his soft brown gaze to tilt up towards me. My words stutter out.

“Ah, of course.” His eyes lock onto mine. Normally, I’m a facade of confidence—have to be, when you look like me, fight like me—but the way his gaze homes in makes my stomach too tight, fizzy. Like a charm of hummingbirds has suddenly taken flight.

Does he feel the same? Of course not, because there’s nothing between us. What felt like the world tilting off its axis to me was just another night to him, another silly kiss.

“Nothing fancy,” Charlie adds, unaware of anything that might have passed between us. He kicks his skates onto the floor. “Cheap food, large portions.”

“Sure, I’m game.” Olli leans back down, and again my gaze goes to the lines of ink just peeking through on his back. He seems too pretty, too strait-laced, for a tattoo, but there it is. Olli James has a tattoo down his spine.

He straightens, his shouldies shifting back down to cover it. I still haven’t seen enough to know what it is, and it only invites me to wonder . . . What might it be? And are there more hidden places, hidden ink, to be discovered on him?

For all that my ink’s on broad display—knuckles and arms, ribs, thigh, chest, on my neck reaching behind my left ear—there’s something tantalizing about the thought of —

“You’re coming too, right, Tay?” Charlie kicks at my shin with his bare foot, effectively and forcibly removing me from my wandering thoughts.

“Nah, still gotta work.” I feel strangely self-conscious in my jeans and leather jacket, while the rest of the team strips down around me. Shit, the mystery of Olli’s hidden skin is about to be solved.

I suddenly don’t want to find out here, surrounded by the team.

I don’t know why I don’t want that. Wouldn’t that make it easier, to see it and move on? Yet, when Olli stands to tug his pants down, I direct my gaze elsewhere. “Last call for skates?”

“I’m good.” Charlie traipses towards the open showers in the back corner. Paul follows. The others trail in his wake in a chorus of polite negatives.

“No thanks.” Olli brings up the rear, and I pretend to be suddenly interested in my chewed fingernails so I get only a blur of dark skin in my periphery. Why is it so challenging to not notice him?

We’re hockey boys; we’ve been marching naked around locker rooms since we were kids, utterly unabashed by our own bodies or those of our teammates.

And yet . . . my eyes want so desperately to lift as he paces past.

I catch a glimpse of long, lean legs. Corded calves, thick thighs—

Heat surges low in my belly. So hot and sudden it takes me by surprise. Leaves me standing there, breathing too shallow as I wait for the moment to pass, the burst of electricity to fade.

Maybe there is a God up there, looking out for me, because my phone buzzes against my thigh. I dig it from my pocket to find JB’s name stretched across the screen.

I turn away gratefully. “Tell me you got something?”

“I got something,” he agrees. “A vol. You need a driver?”

“Nah, I’ll drag Sydney.” I stuff my phone into my pocket and head for the door. Just enough time to pick up a car—a voluntary repossession—before the Ice Out.