Jack’s jaw drops, and the way he turns to look at Ellie causes laughter to spill from me. The only way I can describe his expression right now is utter betrayal, and I think it’s hilarious.
“Sara has met Alondra too? Do you just hate me or something?” he asks, and Ellie laughs too.
“No, I don’t hate you, Jack,” she says, taking a drink.
Jack’s mouth tilts into a smile, and his eyes slide to meet mine. “See, Al? I told you I have platonic friends who are girls. Ellie and Sara count.”
“So you haven’t asked either of them for a kiss to save your ego with your buddies?” I ask, giving him the sweetest smile I can.
His blue eyes flash, and Dylan snorts. “That’s how you got her to kiss you? Damn, Schultz. You’re losing your touch,” he says, shaking his head at his captain.
“It worked, didn’t it?” I can’t help laughing because it did. I smile back at Jack, surprising both of us, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, maybe he isn’t so bad.
“Did I miss something? I thought you hated hockey players, and now you’re kissing them in bars, Alondra?” Chad asks, chiming in, and Macy quickly elbows him, but it’s too late. The question is already hanging in the open while we’re surrounded by hockey players.
I stir my drink, biting back my immediate response. I wouldn’t have even been here if it weren’t for him breaking up with Macy, only to ask her to get back together less than a week later. Jack raises an eyebrow at me, waiting for an explanation, but I don’t have one—or at least, not one I want to share in front of four of my father’s players.
“How do you hate hockey when your dad coaches?” Dylan asks, and I shrug, stalling by taking a drink of my rum with a splash of Coke.
“I don’t hate hockey,” I answer, and Ellie bumps my knee under the table with hers.
“Well, I think it’s boring, and my brother plays, so I’m not sure why it matters,” Ellie says, and Jack gives me a smile before taking a swig of the water in front of him.
“Good enough for me. I appreciate honesty more than a dick trying to put someone down in front of others,” Jack responds to Chad, his eyes never leaving mine. He just won himself some major points in my book.
Out of the corner of my vision, I see Chad stiffen. “We’re going to the bar. Does anyone need anything to drink?” he asks, but I think there’s a good chance he’ll spit in every glass after that.
“I would like if you went away and never came back,” I mumble under my breath. Ellie’s quiet laughter next to me tells me I wasn’t quiet enough. Macy’s face shifts into a silent plea, begging me to be nice to Chad. “I’m good, thanks.”
Everyone else shakes their heads before we reshuffle to let them out.
“I thought they broke up?” Jack asks, watching them walk away.
“It changes by the week,” I say, sipping my drink.
“He’s a dick.” The guy who was stuck talking with Chad says, and Coop grimaces.
“Took you that long to figure out? Chaz talked over her ten times in the first three minutes of them sitting,” he says, and I can honestly say I think Coop might be my favorite at the table.
“I was being nice—something you might want to try every once in a while,” he says, rolling his eyes before offering me a smile. “I’m Nate. I think I owe you a drink for helping Cap with his class.” He exudes charisma, drawing me in with his easy smile and honey eyes. That makes him Nate Baxter, leader in the Wolves’ penalties last season, but the man sitting in front of me is very different from the “tough guy” persona he presents on the ice.
“Or I can get her one myself, Baxter.” Jack’s voice is a low rumble, drawing my attention back to him. I bite back a laugh because he might as well be a dog lifting his leg on a tree, claiming it as his.
Too bad for him, I have no intention of being pissed on anytime soon.
Coop rolls his eyes, taking a drink of his beer when a grunt slips from Jack.
“Why did you kick me?” he asks, narrowing his pretty eyes at Ellie, and she scoffs.
“Do you even have to ask? Did you take a hit to the head at practice today or something?”
Jack sputters and I shake my head, turning to talk to Ellie’s brother instead. “Coop, you’re left-handed, aren’t you?” I ask, and he tilts his head.
“Yeah?” he answers, and suddenly his difference in saves from the right and left sides of the goal makes sense.
“You should work on drills to strengthen your right side. If I’m remembering correctly, most of the shots that snuck past you last season were on that side of the goal,” I say, taking a long drink of my rum and Coke, a fuzzy feeling beginning to soften the hard edges of my personality.
Coop looks at me like I’m a pig that sprouted wings. “Your dad told me the same thing last month.”
