She watches Logan disappear across the street, then leans conspiratorially toward me. “So, how long have you been in love with your brother’s teammate, Sugarplum?”
I soundlessly gasp and shake my head. “I—what—no—”
She pats my arm before breezing off and down the porch. “I’ve seen more chemistry than a high school lab. Yours doesn’t lie.”
I stand there stunned for a second, wondering if it’s that obvious to everyone, or just to Betty the fucking neighborhood psychic. On a groan, I sag against the wall, praying no one else has noticed this ridiculous crush I can’t shake.
“Whata fucking housewarming.”
Chapter four
The difference between loyalty and yacht-party betrayal
Logan
Skating the ice should be enough.
Down and back, sharp pivots, push until my thighs burn. The rhythm is supposed to clear my head, with the same drills I’ve been running since I was old enough to lace skates without help. Edge work, clean and mechanical.
But my head won’t clear.
She keeps slipping in; sunlight through blinds I can’t shut. Lulu on the porch, the movers tripping over themselves just because she laughed. Betty, leaning on the railing and calling her abeautiful creature, and cackling about my thighs. Then the kicker—warning me not to smash her mirror or it’d create seven years of bad luck for our inevitable marriage.
Jesus Christ.
Meadow’s been fake-marrying us off every other Sunday at brunch, and now Betty’s in on the conspiracy. At this rate, we’ll be sending out save-the-dates by Halloween.
I dig harder, lungs pulling sharp against the cold, blades carving deep.
These thoughts aren’t supposed to be part of the plan.
I was raised on plans. My parents had calendars before I could spell. Trainings blocked out, tutors, camps. Every edge mapped, every outcome strategized. All the gear, all the resources, all the quiet determination to make sure their only kid made it here. They loved me in their own way. A schedule instead of a hug, a new stick instead of someone cheering in the stands. Warmth wasn’t in their playbook.
So I don’t know what the hell to do with Lulu Parnell in my head.
She’s been there ever since Eli’s wedding last year, all sparkle and bare shoulders and that laugh that rings through my brain every time I hear it. And she hasn’t left since. Showing up at brunch, in the neighborhood, at our games.
Now she’s across the street, with her boxes and movers and that mirror that nearly killed me on her staircase.
This isn’t my problem.Sheis not my problem. I’m just stuck in the splash zone because Eli asked me to keep an eye on her. That’s it.
Except Eli can’t—or won’t—see it. How sharp she is under all that sunshine. She doesn’t even seem to realize half of it herself, and that’s what sticks. That’s what won’t shake.
I cut a tight turn, faster than necessary, trying to scrape her out of my head. All I get is the sound of her chuckle as she promised to keep the curtains closed, and the way it lingered longer than it should have before Eli’s knock ruined it.
Jesus.
Two years in the league, trying to prove last season’s disaster wasn’t all on me, and my dad still calls after every game with a list of everything I need to improve on. I don’t need this. I don’t need her grin, her curves, or the way her voice goes soft when I look her in the eye.
She’s not part of the plan.
I curse under my breath, lower my head and push harder, hoping speed alone can put her back where she belongs—on the other side of the glass, not in my chest.
“Jesus, Miller,” Jake calls as I blow past him, his stick rattling when he misses a poke check. “You running from something or training for the Olympics?”
“Both,” Chase says, skating lazy circles around us. “Pookie’s terrified he won’t get home in time to catch the new season ofSummer Shoreline.”
I grunt. “The hell is that?”
