“When did you get here?”
He shrugged. “Ten minutes ago.”
“Man, you really wanted to hear about my date.” She studied him, aware of that sense of secrecy he projected. She’d always known when he was hiding something. “Or you’re here for another reason.” She looked back at the ice. From what she knew, six guys played at a time. A goalie, two defensemen, and three on the forward line.
The Mavericks consisted of her three brothers and nine other players. All men, though the league was supposed to be coed. Hmm. She knew all but two of them, recognizing a few teachers, two nurses, a lawyer, and a doctor.
They stood on the ice, talking, sticks in hand, holding helmets.
Wasting time.
She frowned. “Where is he? He said he’d be here.”
Noise came from the far entrance.
“That sounds like him,” Jeff said. They stood to look over at Damon arguing with someone.
“Uh-oh. I sense a brawl.” She couldn’t help worrying a little for Damon. Though huge and obviously familiar with fighting, he was still healing that knee. Fortunately, the arguing abruptly ceased, and the door slammed.
He came forward, not limping at all. Spotting her, he gave a wave and a half smile before glaring at the players on the ice. “What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation to skate? Get to some laps.”
Steve grinned and gave Damon a thumbs up, then yanked his helmet on and joined the others for warmup laps around the ice.
“Go find out what happened.” Jeff shoved her in Damon’s direction.
“Stop pushing.” She moved down the stadium stairs and knocked on the Plexiglass of the player’s bench.
The benches in the rink actually had admittance to the stadium, though most hockey benches often didn’t, accessed only by the ice. But the hall leading to the locker rooms sat nearby, and instead of players having to use the ice to reach a gate leading out to the locker rooms, they could easily access it via the bench.
“Hi, Marlie.” Damon grinned. He wore an Ice Raptors sweatshirt and jeans. Boots again, no skates, she saw, not sure why she’d expected he’d be wearing them.
“Why were you late?”
“I was on time but got distracted by a dickhead out in the parking lot.”
“What happened?”
“Apparently, the coach of the Sharks, the team your guys are playing tomorrow, thought this was an open practice.”
Nearby, Will, who’d slowed on his pass by the bench, said, “They normally are.”
“Well, not today.”
He grinned and continued.
Damon turned back to Marlie. “The guy’s lucky I don’t pound his face in.”
Marlie’s heart raced, enamored with that mean streak of Damon’s.
“Do you know who their coach is?”
“Yeah. He’s a dickbag.” Damon grunted. “Morgan Asby.”
“I know him,” Jeff said from right behind her. So much for forcing her to find out what was happening while keeping discreetly away. “He’s a nice guy.”
“Unless he’s forcing you to tears of pain with stupid exercises,” Damon grumbled.
“What?” Marlie was confused.
