The damn kitchen takes over an hour to clean between the six of us, solidifying my lack of enthusiasm to do another cooking competition any time soon. We sluggishly wash pots and pans, grunting with discontent.
A loud clash echoes throughout the house as several clean pots and utensils fall to the grease riddled floor.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tyler slams his first on the counter.
“Not a big deal,” Keith assures him with a pat on the back. “We’ll just give these ones an extra wash.”
“Great. Just what I want to do on vacation, wash more dishes.” Tyler’s nostrils flare. A flash of fury clouds his eyes as if he’s about to punch something. Or someone.
Before the cloud turns into a storm, I intervene, “Tyler, go walk it off.”
“Whatever you say, Captain.” Tyler gives me a mocking salute and walks straight out the open doors to the patio.
What the hell’s gotten into him? He’s been in a mood all day damn.
As my hands wrap around my old hockey stick, a much-needed calm relief washes over me. Hockey has been my escape my entire life. It’s been the one thing I can always rely on to clear my head and set me straight. The pressure of this year might be starting to change that, but not today.
A centering air fills my lungs. On the exhale, my blade scrapes the concrete and connects with the ball, sending it to the back of the net before Keith can move an inch. Keith blocks my next two shots, but my final six shots mimic the first. Sweet victory!
“Damn it,” Keith mutters under his breath.
“Nice, Captain Hotshot.” Laur beams at me from across the driveaway. A cocky smile starts to dance across my face, but I bite my bottom lip to keep it at bay and remain humble.
“Blaine, you’re up. King, you’re on deck,” I call as I saunter toward Laur and the girls.
“I bet you fifty bucks Ryder sinks every puck,” Sydney not so subtly whispers to Libby.
“Technically, it’s a ball not a puck, Syd,” Libby corrects her friend. In boxes with plenty of equipment from my teenage years playing with my cousins, I found some old street hockey balls perfect for shooting around on the driveway.
“Whatever, Lib,” Sydney snaps back. The drama in her eyeroll could rival the sassiest of Bren’s signature looks—I’m sure of it. “Are you taking the bet or not?”
“Fine.” Libby extends her hand to Sydney, and they shake on their bet.
“Didn’t know you were placing bets on my team,” I comment, curious how many times over this trip a bet has been placed.
Sydney blushes, and Libby lets out a nervous laugh, “This is the first one we’ve made all summer, I swear!”
“We’ve got to keep it interesting somehow,” Sydney mumbles, earning a few giggles from Bren and Laur.
“Bored?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at Laur.
“With you? Never,” Laur responds, moving next to my side and interlacing her finger with mine. “But if I was a betting woman, I would put all my money on you, Lucas.”
“Get a room,” Bren teases. Sydney makes an audible gagging noise of disgust.
In a low growl, I whisper into Laur’s ear, “Oh we will definitely be getting a room later.”
My sultry comment earns me a playful hit to the chest as Laur’s cheeks turn a deep scarlet. Slowly pulling her into me, I plant a delicate kiss on her neck and wrap my arms tightly around her body. My only desire is to be with her however I can be.
My eyes instinctively close as I inhale Laur’s sweet perfume, losing myself in the comfort of being with her. Hockey is my first love and my first escape, but just being around Laur challenges its place—always pushing for a tie instead of settling for being a close second.
“Holy shit.” Laur’s voice pulls me out of my trance.
“I should have put my money on your boyfriend, Libby,” Sydney huffs in surprise.
“Shut up, Syd. He’s not my boyfriend,” Libby snorts, folding her arms.
While I daydreamed, Blaine Mitchell made eight shots in a row. He looks like the shots didn’t even faze him. Keith is a damn good goalie—one of the top ranked in NCAA Division I ice hockey. My jaw drops as Blaine snipes his last shot.
