Page 38 of The Play Maker

And suddenly, I get it. The jokes. The charm. The flirty deflections. They’re armor.

He’s scared. And he’s trying really hard not to look it.

“You’re suspended from hockey?” I ask.

Austin exhales. “Temporarily,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. His eyes meet mine when it falls to the table again. “Coach still makes me show up to practice and help. Tape sticks. Run drills.” He sighs. “It fucking sucks.”

His fingers tap a slow rhythm against the edge of his notebook. “I miss skating,” he says. “That’s the worst part. I miss the burn in my legs. The cold. The noise. I miss being tired because I worked hard, not because I stared at a screen for three hours trying to understand words.”

He groans and leans back like the words sting more than he wants to admit. But it’s there in his voice, the kind of honesty you don’t throw around unless you think someone might actually understand.

And maybe I do.

Not the hockey part. But the need to escape. The part where you know who you are when you’re doing something that means everything, and how everything falls apart when it’s gone.

“I’m going to help you pass,” I tell him.

He glances at me again.

“We’ll get you back on the ice.”

It sounds simple. But it isn’t. I know that. He knows that. Still, I mean it.

Austin holds my gaze, like he’s searching for the lie. “You really think that’s possible?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I do.”

He nudges my foot under the table. It’s barely a touch—more like a soft kick—but it makes me glance up.

“You know,” he says, with a smirk, “you’re way nicer than you pretend to be.”

I smirk. “And you’re a lot smarter than you pretend to be.”

He lets out a laugh, and wags his brows at me. “You’re hot when you compliment me.”

And we’re back to the jokes.

I shoot him a flat look. “I’m not above stabbing you with a highlighter.”

He grins, unabashed. “Knew there was a little violence in you, Freckles.”

By the time we wrap up, Austin’s head is tilted back, eyes heavy-lidded like he’s half-asleep. His jokes have slowed, and the sarcasm that’s usually on a ten is down to a sleepy three.

“That was… less painful than expected.”

I lift a brow. “High praise.”

“You make it fun.” He smiles, a lazy, lopsided one. “I actually get this now. Like, a little.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” I say as I start gathering my notes. “You’ve still got a long way to go.”

He stands, stretching his arms above his head until his hoodie lifts just enough to show the waistband of his boxers. I force myself to look back at my bag.Jesus, Maisie. Get a grip.It’s just abs. Abs from a guy you have no interest in.

He yawns. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. Seriously. Dunno what I would do without you.”

I slide my notes into my folder and zip my bag. “Same time next week?” I ask, lifting out of the chair.

He nods. “Same time. I’ll even be on time. Probably.”