“You think this is funny,” he says evenly, flexing his blocker glove from under Chase’s thigh. “But I dream in slow-motion replays of every puck you’ve ever lost in the slot.” A pause. “And I wake up smiling.”
The pile freezes, then detonates into laughter so hard Ryan actually topples sideways as a chorus of“What the actual fuck?”and“You’re insane!”and“That’s why he’s a goalie!”rings out.
Hutchy sits up slowly, unbothered, mask askew. “Get off my crease,” he mutters, dragging his blade back into the same groove and starting his routine again as if nothing happened.
I glide past, coasting slow enough to look casual. “You psychos do realize you’re grown men arguing over yacht parties, right?”
“Shut up, Pookie,” Chase fires back immediately, pointing his stick. “You’re out here skating like it’s Game Seven in September. Kinda obvious there’s drama inyourlife.”
“You want drama, Walton?” I angle a puck toward his skates, grin sharp. “I could just tell Coach Benson about what I walked in on in the equipment room last week. Pretty sure Zoe’s back was against the stick rack.”
“That wasprivate!”
I hum slowly, drawing it out. “Seemed prettypublicto me…”
Jake chokes so hard he has to clutch the boards, howling. Ryan’s doubled over, Eli wheezing. Reid doesn’t even look up, still tracing his crease lines.
Chase jabs his stick at me. “You keep your mouth shut, Miller.”
“Then shutyours,” I fire back, still grinning as I push off.
I don’t give a shit about this TV show and yacht-party girl or Kelsey or shellfish allergies. Because while the guys are losing their minds over fake drama, even when I’m supposed to be drilling patterns into muscle memory, she’s still there.
Lulu.
And I don’t have a goddamn clue how to skate her out.
***
The air in the locker room is heavy with sweat and damp gear, that familiar funk of unstrapped pads and steam still clinging to the walls. Someone cracks open a fresh can of Zyn, and the sharp bite of mint cuts through the musk. Tape tears somewhere behind me, that tacky-sweet smell of wax mixing with wet laces.
This is the part nobody glamorizes. No cameras, no fanfare—just steam, stink, and guys chirping each other until the walls shake.
I sit on the bench, toweling off my hair, head still buzzing from the skate. I should feel wrung out and empty, my usual signs ofa great informal skate ahead of the season starting. Instead, I’m on edge, pulse still twitching like I left laps unfinished.
Jake groans from his bench. “Charlie’s baking this weekend.”
Nobody looks up.
“ForLulu.” He drags out her name. “Housewarming brownies. Which means no brownies for me.”
The boys laugh, Ryan shaking his head. “God forbid your fiancée bakes for someone else, Brooks.”
“She does it every Sunday,” Jake insists, pointing at Eli. “One tray.One. And I usually get the leftovers. But no, your sister moves into a new house, and suddenly I’m cut off.”
“Sounds like Lulu’s got her priorities straight,” Chase says, smirking.
Eli snorts. “Damn right she does. Always has.”
Chase leans back against his stall, towel slung around his neck, grin sharpening. “Know who’s interested in being herpriority? Viktor. He was halfway to wooing her at your wedding before someone”—his eyes cut to me—“made sure he didn’t get there.”
Eli’s head snaps up at the sound of our third-line defenseman’s name. “Viktor’s a creep. And my sister’s not up for discussion.”
Reid whistles low. “Here we go.”
“She’s nearly twenty-four, man,” Jake adds, shoving gear into his duffel. “A fully-fledged teacher. She can handle herself without you running interference.”
Before I can stop myself, the words are out. “He’s right.”
