Page 24

Tobie

“What’d you do on your first day off?” I ask as he drives us away from the campus. He opened the door for me as well, and I hadn’t been expecting that from him.

“Tried to sneak into the gym.”

“And?”

“Failed.”

“Then?” Because there must be more. A guy like Caleb Boucher doesn’t seem the type to give up easily.

“Tried the arena at night.”

“But?”

“Security refused to let me in, and Coach must’ve had them disarm my security pass because it didn’t work.”

“Sounds like he’s serious.”

“He is.”

We continue the drive through the city, and he’s so quiet it’s easy to guess what he must be thinking.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to be here. I can tell your coach that you did this if you want to go back. The game is too important for you to waste your time dragging me out like this.”

He makes a turn on downtown Main Street, along a side road before pulling up in front of a park. “Coach might have a point,” he says quietly.

“Oh?”

He cuts the engine and unsnaps his seat belt. “Come on, let’s go for that walk.”

I follow him out and let him lead the way.

It’s not the green park I’d expected, but more of a recreation center with some small green spots with benches to picnic.

It’s a cool day, just as Caleb warned, so the only people we pass are dog walkers and joggers.

There are separate sections for different sports like tennis, badminton, and basketball courts.

We’re headed toward an enclosed court where little kids rush back and forth as they laugh and yell at each other.

“I might be a little too focused on the big game.”

He admits it as if it’s a dirty secret, like someone will punish him for not being one hundred percent focused on the game twenty-four-seven.

“That sounds exhausting.”

He jams his hands in his pockets. “It can be, but this team deserves to lift that trophy, and I intend to make it happen. Not just for me. For them.”

I understand why Reid didn’t want me to tell any of his teammates about his struggles with his paper, and why he keeps dropping working on it to help Caleb.

He’s shouldering a lot, and even though I don’t know him all that well, I want to take some of the pressure off him because it sounds like too much for one person.

“Coach is the reason I chose LU,” he says, staring straight ahead. “I had recruiters for most of the major colleges trying to get me to sign before I started high school.”

That would have made him…

Shit.

I had heard he was good, but I hadn’t realized he was that good at fourteen.

“And?”

He glances at me. “My parents got divorced a couple of years before. It’s why my mom moved us from Canada to be closer to her family in Philadelphia.

I didn’t want to go to a team and struggle to get ice time.

I wanted to go somewhere I could do something special.

Make a difference. Maybe there’s some ego in that, but Coach gave me the chance to make a real difference somewhere. ”

“So you chose one of the worst teams in the league because you wanted to…”

“Make history.” He darts a rapid glance my way. “I’ve done that. Or I’m about to. And…”

I peer up at him. “And?”

He says quietly, “I didn’t want to be too far from my mom in case she needed me.”

I don’t know how this man keeps surprising me, but he does.

I trail him through the park, glancing at him periodically, wondering at the insane level of focus and determination he had so young.

At fourteen, I was still figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. Hell, at twenty-two, I’m still figuring it out. He knew it, and now this is it, the thing he’s always wanted.

It’s getting hard to think with the screaming kids hurtling up and down a concrete-enclosed hockey court.

“What’s that?” I frown.

“Street hockey. I used to play with my brother when I was a kid.”

The kids are nine or ten years old, maybe a little older. All are in worn-looking, different-colored hockey jerseys, jeans, and inline skates.

They’re good.

At least, I think they’re good. They’re spending more time laughing than playing as they weave around, tapping a puck to each other. A man in a black denim jacket stands off to the side, watching them with a smile and his hands stuffed in his sweatpants’ pockets.

Two of the kids are practically having a wrestling match when one flicks the other in the middle of his forehead.

One flick prompts a pile of kids screaming, yelling, and laughing as they jump all over each other.

The man steps forward, pulling his hands from his pockets as he claps. “Hey! Break it up. Let’s start this practice.”

“Wait. They hadn’t even started?” I ask Caleb.

He shakes his head. “My old coach used to do the same. The first twenty minutes we’d play and get all the excited energy out of our system before the real practice starts.”

Ah.

As the kids get to their feet, I look at Caleb. “Do you miss it?”

His eyes fly to mine. “Huh?”

I gesture at the kids. “Street hockey.”

He shrugs. “It was just something I did.”

“But did you like it?”

His jaw twitches as he watches the kids gather in front of their coach. “I did.”

“So why’d you stop?”

“It’s Caleb Boucher,” a kid yells before Caleb can respond.

I’m surprised they would even know who he is until I remember Lamont isn’t a massive city, and the Wolverines are about to win their first championship in decades. These kids must have watched a game over the last few years if they like to play street hockey.

“That’s not Caleb Boucher,” another kid snorts and glances over. “Fuck me, it’s?—”

“ Language !” the blond man calls out, but he’s staring at Caleb with something resembling awe. “Hey.”

Caleb nods. “Hey.”

The kids skate toward us. “What are you doing here?” a kid with short red hair asks.

Their eyes bounce from him to me. “Is that your girlfriend?”

One kid nudges another. “Dude, what kind of question is that?”

I get embarrassed because maybe even they can see through our fake relationship.

“Of course she is.” A dark-haired kid rolls his eyes and elbows his friend. “Idiot.”

“She’s pretty.”

I can’t help but smile at the compliment. Maybe it’s what gives me the confidence to say, “Caleb used to play street hockey.”

Their eyes bulge.

“You did?” one kid asks Caleb.

He nods. “A while ago. During summer.”

“We have a game next week. That’s what we’re practicing for,” one kid says.

“If you wanted to play…” I prompt Caleb, who shows no sign he’s ready to leave.

“I don’t have my skates,” Caleb says.

But I swear he’s interested.

If he won’t join the kids, then maybe I could help with that.

I arch my eyebrow and raise my voice. “Afraid the kids will whoop your ass?”

The kids ooh .

Caleb scowls at me. “No kids are going to whoop my ass.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” I motion to the hockey rink. “Let’s see what you’re made of, Boucher.”

He gives me a look that promises payback, releasing a sigh as he walks around to the entrance.

The kids gather around him, shouting questions about plays, goals, and other hockey terms that fly right over my head.

I cross my arms and watch him.

He’s stiff at first, keeping his distance as he asks whether their play technique is defensive or offensive.

The kids look confused until he backs up and asks them to show him one of their plays.

What starts off as a question turns into a full-blown lesson with the kids’ coach stepping back as Caleb calls out directions.

He doesn’t have skates like the kids do, but that doesn’t stop him from taking a stick the coach offers him. I lean against the side of the enclosure, surprising myself by enjoying watching the kids play.

Two of the kids team up to take Caleb down, and when Caleb hits the ground, I expect him to call off this practice. When a grin splits his face as he gets to his feet and dusts himself off, it turns an already attractive guy into one I can’t take my eyes off.

I don’t even realize I’m smiling until my cheeks hurt.

He’s with them for over thirty minutes, and at no point am I the least bit bored when I always thought I’d prefer to watch paint dry than sports.

Caleb turns to me, finds me smiling, and his expression softens. “You want a go, Myers?”

I back up, eyes wide. “Uh, I don’t play hockey.”

“Afraid we’ll whoop your ass?” he teases.

“Yes. I really am.” I’m not joking. Not even a little.

The kids laugh.

“We’ll go easy on you,” one calls out.

“Come on, I’ll protect you,” Caleb offers softly.

And even though I don’t know the first thing about hockey, I pull my hands from my pockets and round the enclosure to get to the entrance. “Okay.”

It is so much bigger on the asphalt hockey rink than I thought, and I have no idea what I’m doing or even where to stand.

We have a quick round of introductions, and the coach, Trey, a man in his mid-thirties, is content to take a step back and let Caleb take over his training session.

“Here.” Caleb hands me his stick and grabs another for himself from Trey, who has a couple of spares. “You’re on my team, and we’re going to win.”

I eye the kids warily. “We are?”

“We are.”

He shows me the mechanics of holding a stick and drops the puck in front of me. “You ready to test this hockey thing out?”

I nod. “Ready.”

“Give it a tap.”

I tap the puck. It doesn’t move.

Caleb grins. “You were meant to hit it.”

The kids laugh as my face heats up. “I tried, okay.”

“I can help,” the coach says, walking over.

“I’ve got it.” Caleb leans his stick against the side. “Over here, Myers.”

And I hold my breath as he wraps his arms around me, places his hands over mine on the stick, and says in my ear, “You grip like this.”

Suddenly, it’s impossible to breathe with Caleb’s arms wrapped snugly around me.

Or maybe it’s because I’m awash in his fresh cedar scent.

“And then?” I murmur.

When he doesn’t respond, I angle my head to the right.

He’s looking down at me, eyes glued to my face, no, on my mouth .

And this time, there’s no lollipop in sight.

I start having inappropriate thoughts I should not have while surrounded by kids, all because of Max’s dirty mind.