Page 12 of The Alternate Captain (Elite Hockey #3)

The pickup zone outside the railway station is busy, but everyone falls into a deathly silence as my brother’s car comes screeching around the corner like it needs a new exhaust. If I slowly back away from the curb, I can sink into the depths of the station, and he’ll never see me—except I’m far too slow.

Mike honks his horn and sticks his head out the window.

“Jump in then, Kel,” he says, resting his elbow on the window frame. “I can’t afford to get another ticket.” He’s grinning, revelling in how embarrassed I am.

I hang my bag over my shoulder and grab my cello case, careful not to swing it at anyone, then I clasp the handle of my suitcase so I can wheel it behind me.

Mike’s car is a three-door hatchback so, ideally, I’d put my cello in the front seat, but I’m keen to get the hell away from here.

I open the passenger door and stuff it into the backseat, careful to wedge it in just enough to stop it rocking during the drive.

“How was the journey?” Mike asks as I climb in next to him.

At least he waits until I’ve buckled up before speeding off toward the town centre .

“Probably more relaxing than this,” I say, not taking my eyes off the road. His driving is erratic, and if I look away, I know I’ll vomit.

He taps the dashboard impatiently as he waits at a red light.

The route from the railway station to my new student house would usually take a full ten minutes in the car with this amount of traffic, but Mike squeals to a stop outside in eight minutes flat.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” he asks, cutting the engine.

It’s a Victorian townhouse, which has seen better days, and because Tom and I left it until the last minute, hoping I would need to live closer to the music college, we were left with the dregs of available accommodation.

Luckily, Sally and Marie, two girls from our orchestra, were also looking for a place, so we pitched together and wound up with this.

“Yes. I know it’s not a palace, but it’s a good price—and within walking distance and all that, so I don’t need my car.

” I wanted my car, of course, but it wasn’t practical to be paying out to keep it going when I didn’t actually need it.

Besides, Tom is bringing his car because he refuses to use public transport.

Mike helps me inside with my things and scrunches his nose up when he navigates the entrance hallway to my bedroom, which is at the very front of the house.

It was clearly a sitting room at some point, with an aged bay window.

But the room itself is large and bright, so I was happy that I picked it out of the baseball cap Tom had commandeered.

“Do you have your landlord’s number handy?” he says, moving towards the hearth. It doesn’t serve as a real fireplace, but Mike peers at it sceptically.

“Why?”

“I need to call him.”

“It’s a her.”

“Don’t care.” He moves over to the window. “Someone needs to sort this out—it looks like it’s leaking.”

I sigh, flinging my suitcase onto my bare bed so I can unpack. “It’s fine.”

“No. It’s not. Did you even view this place?”

“Yeah. We all did.”

He makes an audible ‘hmph,’ then scratches his head. “Does Mam know?”

“You’re done here. Thank you for the ride,” I say, ushering him out the door.

“Wait—I thought you needed me to take you shopping? How are you going to manage for bedding and stuff?”

Damn him to pieces.

We spend three hours in IKEA, and by the time we’re emptying his car of things, I never want to see another giant blue bag again.

“You’ve got my schedule, right? Because if you need anything, I can get over here in, like, fifteen minutes, depending on traffic,” Mike says after he dumps the last of the shopping bags on my bedroom floor.

It’s at least twenty minutes by car back to his place, but I don’t correct him.

“Yes, but I’ll be fine, honest.”

He gives me a hug, squeezing my shoulders, before thumping me in the ribs. Finally, he agrees to leave me to the mammoth task of unpacking, making my bed, and getting my kitchen stuff put away.

I finish making my bed up when the front door clatters open and Tom’s sing-song tone calls out.

“In here,” I say, moving to hang my clothes up in a rickety wardrobe opposite the fireplace.

Tom bounds in, dropping a holdall in my doorway before collapsing on the bed .

“I’ve just finished making that.”

“I can tell. It’s been a long day,” he says. “Can I sleep here?”

I eye his bag. “Is that all you’ve brought?”

Tom props himself up on his elbow, facing me as I stand at my wardrobe.

“No. My car is crammed full of stuff. I’m going to need some help—wait...”

He scrambles to his feet and strides towards me, pulling Johnny’s hoodie from my hands, examining it.

“Did your brother make captain?” His eyebrows pinch together, and he looks as if he’s trying to work out a complex maths problem.

Shit.

I open my mouth to reply, but Tom’s eyes widen as the answer comes to him. “This is Johnny’s hoodie,” he gasps, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Number ‘56.’ That’s not your brother’s number.”

“Yeah,” I say, reaching for it.

But Tom turns away and moves it out of reach. Then, to my horror, he pulls it to his nose and inhales.

“Don’t you dare. You’ll take all the smell.” I fight him for it, and thankfully, he releases his grasp.

“Why do you have Johnny Koenig’s hoodie? And that’s one of those team-issue ones. And it smells divine, so there’s no way you bought that online.”

He’s right. It smells incredible, and despite my efforts to resist, I’ve been giving it daily sniffs. I had no intention of handing it back to Mike to pass to Johnny. And I figured, worst case, Johnny would have to message me and ask for it if he wanted it back.

I wanted him to message me.

The memory of the last time I saw him appears like a movie in my head. The kiss. His arm wrapped around me. The clean, fresh scent that is so distinctly... Johnny.

Tom catches my eye, looking at me with an expression of complete bemusement.

“Okay, so something happened,” I say, moving to my bedroom door and dragging Tom’s holdall inside.

I close it, then turn to face him. He’s like a child waiting for someone to open the sweet wrapper.

“Tell. Me. Everything,” he says, kicking his shoes off and making himself comfortable on my bed.