Page 32

THIRTY-ONE

Joey

He didn’t text.

Or come to my office.

And he isn’t in his office.

Frowning, I scroll through my phone, half-expecting a text to pop up as I wander through the halls.

They’re buzzing with an interesting type of energy, one I’d likely pay more attention to if I wasn’t staring at my cell’s screen, perplexed by the sudden disappearance of my boyfriend.

The crack of sticks connecting with the ice, the echoes of pucks hitting the boards, the din of male voices giving each other crap…it takes a second, but eventually, I process what I’m hearing.

Strange.

I arranged the ice time.

But the guys mostly use it to fuck around, to practice individual skills, to unwind or try out a new play.

It’s generally fairly quiet, only a handful of players using it at a time.

The noise I’m hearing…

It’s more than that.

Much more.

I pick up the pace without really realizing it, tucking my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as I push through the door to the practice rink.

“Oof,” I mutter several moments later when the door slams into my back.

Because I’ve frozen in the opening, trying to process what I’m seeing in front of me.

“Damon,” I whisper, shoving the door off me and stepping fully into the rink.

“I know,” I hear, jumping about five feet in the air. Kylie smiles at me, her fingers finding mine and squeezing in silent apology for startling me. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it either.”

She looks back out onto the ice and I do the same.

Because…he’s out there.

In skates and gloves, a stick in his hand, moving gracefully as he carries a puck, stick handling fluidly, eyes up as he passes the biscuit over to Colt.

One touch brings it back to Damon who continues fucking around, bouncing the puck off one skate and forward, returning it to the blade of his stick, then firing it back to Colt. Back and forth, nothing too fancy, and there are definitely moments where I can see Damon is rusty from not having played in a long time.

But the instincts are there, the talent is being buffed to a beautiful shine, and?—

Crack!

My mouth quirks.

He’s still got that killer slapshot.

“Wow,” I murmur.

“I know,” Kylie says, leaning next to me, resting her hands on the dasher and peering through the glass. “I remember going to his games. It used to be my favorite part when he made that shot. Like he was a superhero sending the puck at super speed.”

She falls quiet.

I do too.

And I know it’s because she’s feeling the same thing I am—mourning he lost that, mourning the cost to both her and Damon.

“He told me, you know,” she whispers.

My lungs inflate on a rush of air. I hold that inhale for a moment then push it out. “I know,” I say softly.

“And he promised me he would make it better for you.”

My head jerks toward her. “Kylie?—”

“I don’t say that to take away anything he’s doing for you,” she murmurs, fingers squeezing mine again. “But because I noticed how you looked at him and I liked— like —you. You’re nice and funny and smart and I knew, even with that wicked combination of temptation, he’d continue to keep his distance unless…”

“Unless?”

Her eyes gentle. “Unless I gave him a push.” She leans close, bumps her shoulder against mine. “Same as I know that Beth had to make the hard sell to you.”

I snort. “Beth doesn’t know anything aside from the hard sell.” I smile at her. “But she’s been surprisingly chill about me and Damon. Probably because”—I grin at her—“your brother has enough stubbornness for all of us combined.”

“True.” She grins back. “Though, I suppose she’s saving the hard sell for me, considering the twice weekly phone calls I’ve been getting since her visit.”

I groan. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she says. “I’ve heard all about how I need to get back out there and live my life—something that pains me to admit she’s right about because it’s far beyond time I stop hiding.” A huffed-out breath. “All I’m saying is that I know your pain.”

My heart twinges. “Do you need me to tell her to back off?”

Kylie smiles. “No,” she says. “I miss that—having someone in my business…”

“Driving you crazy?” I supply when her eyes grow sad, knowing it’s probably because she misses her mom.

A giggle, light sliding back into her face. “Yes. That .” She leans against the glass. “I’m glad you have her.”

“You know that you have her too now?”

Her teeth press into her bottom lip. “Yeah?”

“Yup. If Beth and John have nothing else, it’s sticking power.”

“Like a fungus?”

“More like funk to a hockey glove,” I say solemnly.

She giggles again then nods out onto the ice. “You ever miss it?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “There’s nothing better than the slight sting in your palms when a puck lands on your blade or the high you get connecting a great pass. Scoring is great,” I say. “But I swear, there was nothing better than setting someone else up and seeing their face light up when they buried it in the back of the net.” I shake my head and laugh. “Which is probably why I ended up coaching when my knee couldn’t hack it—I got to make the plays and be in control and still get the high of a great play, a great goal, a great pass, a great game.”

Her mouth quirks. “I feel that same high when I manage to binge a trash reality show while crocheting a perfect line of stitches.”

Blinking, not expecting that in the least, I turn to her. “Explain.”

Her cheeks go a little pink. “And the Head Coach Voice comes out.” But before I can apologize for what she’s correct about—my demanding tone—she laughs and says, “There’s nothing to talk about. In that vein of trying to live my life, I’m learning something new.”

“Crocheting?”

She nods. “And because I’m terrible at it, I’m pairing it with something I like.”

“Trashy reality shows?”

Another nod. “And wine.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“Wine or show?”

She smiles as she names her favorite wine and then I’m smiling when she mentions a trashy reality show that I happen to watch with religious accuracy. “Can you believe they hooked up again after the tell all?”

A blink. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yee of little Reddit time.” She pats my hand. “I have all the dirt.” A beat. “Please tell me this means that we’re starting a regular trash TV watch party so I can share my knowledge.”

“As long as you promise to teach me to crochet.”

Those brows shoot up. “ You want to learn to crochet?”

“I keep seeing those adorable kits on social media, but have never had an excuse to buy one.” I shrug. “You’ll give me that excuse.”

“Oh,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “This is good. Very good.”

“Is that a yes?”

She lifts her palm for me to smack. “It’s a hell yes!”

We high-five, but our celebration is cut short when a puck ricochets off the glass. Jumping, I glare at Damon through the plexiglass.

He’s smirking, clearly proud of startling us both.

“We’re plotting!” Kylie yells. “So you’d better be careful.”

That doesn’t make his smirk fade. In fact, it only grows as he turns his back on us and goes back to stick-handling.

“Maybe we’ll put aside crochet and pick up home decorating,” she mutters. “I’m sure we can find some truly reprehensible wallpaper to slap up in his bedroom.”

I laugh. “Or maybe we can stick to crocheting and trash TV and”—I raise my voice so I know he can hear it—“ not sharing our sundaes!”

His head whips around, hot blue eyes connecting with mine.

“Oh,” Kylie whispers. “I need to know what that’s about.”

Turning, I wink at her. “Not without copious amounts of wine.”

“I’ll take that bet.” She laughs.

Then, unable to resist, I blow a kiss at Damon, but as I do it, I notice that Colt is watching us.

No.

He’s watching Kylie laugh.

And his face…

Right.

Well, that might be a problem.

It’s a problem for another day, though, I think as I loop my arm through Kylie’s and direct us back down the hall. “Let me grab my phone so we can find a day that works for our schedules.”

Thankfully, that process doesn’t take long, and before I know it, my first Girls’ Night in ages is on the books and I’m walking Kylie to her car.

“Damon and I were going to grab dinner tonight,” she says.

“Oh, shoot.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “Do you want me to grab him?”

“No.” She gives me a quick hug, unlocks her car. “Let him have his fun. Plus”—she smiles at me as she tugs open the driver’s side door—“I have it on good authority that Damon’s not going to be coming home tonight.”

Then, with a wink, she’s in her car.

And driving away.