Page 2 of Something to Prove

Sue me. I’d liked the peppy redhead’s vibe and though I’d deny it with my last breath, I’d thought Walker was cute with his wayward curls, tawny-brown eyes, and tight compact body.

But that was before he’d sold out my best friend.

I knew Langley and some of our other teammates thought I was being unreasonable and that Walker had atoned for his mistake, but he was done-zo in my book.

I gave a curt nod and spun away.

Langley followed, flinging a quick, “Later, dude” over his shoulder.

“Hang on! Ty, may I have a word, please?” Walker called.

I wasn’t going to reply. I didn’t owe him an explanation, and I was pretty damn sure he knew the score anyway.

But Langley grabbed my elbow and leaned into my space. “Be nice, Ty. New school year, blank slate, and all that.”

“Bullshit,” I coughed under my breath.

“C’mon, Jett forgave him. You can afford to be magnimonious too.”

“Magnanimous,” I corrected.

Langley rolled his eyes. “Whatever the fuck. The point is…you’re going to the AH-fuckin’-L. No reason to be bitter, right? At least hear him out.”

With that, Langley strode away, leaving me to deal with the annoyingly cheery Walker Woodrow.

I was a good six inches taller and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds of muscle. My height, brawny size, and less-than-sunny demeanor should have been intimidating, but Walker was apparently immune.

“Congratulations are in order,” he gushed. “AHL…wow! And to Jacksonville, no less.”

“You’re a hockey fan?” I heard myself ask out of the blue.

“Honestly, I think everyone at Smithton is—or they will be, knowing they’ll be able to root for one of our own in the pros.”

That wasn’t really an answer, but his smile was more brilliant than the last. It made him incandescent, as if he had some kind of inner glow.

I had to admit, Walker had a good TV face. He wasn’t classically handsome, but that spark in him transmitted nicely on-screen. It made him interesting, and it made it seem as if he were interested in you. An excellent quality for a talk show host. Or a con artist.

“Thanks,” I replied tersely. “I have to get going.”

“I’ll walk with you.” He fell into step beside me, uninvited. “I know you’re probably busy getting ready for classes. I just finalized my schedule and bought a few online textbooks. OMG, highway robbery. Am I right? I can’t believe how much collegiate e-books cost.”

His melodic laughter rang between the buildings like birdsong.

Do not cave. He might look pretty, but the man is rotten to the core.

I stopped in my tracks. “Is there something you wanted?”

“Actually…yes.” Walker bit into his bottom lip and gave a sheepish look. “I’d love to interview you forWhat’s New, Smithton?Our audience will go nuts for a chance to hear all about the draft, how it’s changed your life so far, what you imagine life will be like in Florida next year, and…what it’s likebeing an out bisexual athlete on the rise. The interview itself is generally thirty minutes long. Super low-key. We could meet at the rink or at my?—”

“No.”

He recoiled as if I’d punched him in the gut. “I…uh, I can work around your schedule, of course, and?—”

“No,” I repeated.

“Um…is there a problem?” Walker asked carefully.

“No problem with me. I just don’t want anything to do with you. And I’m not going to change my mind.” I stepped away from him, relishing his pointedly shocked expression. “Tell your followers that’s what’s new in Smithton.”