I don’t say anything else, just nod and shove my gear into my bag, like that’s some kind of answer. But my head is fine; I’m playing well. I’m also notjustthinking about hockey. With my age, my knee, my place with the Iceguard and hopefully the Knights, I don’t have the luxury of only thinking about the game.
Not anymore.
***
Jamie’s game that night is a rare late one. Half the bleachers are empty, and everything’s a little too quiet under the buzz of overhead lights. It makes the rink feel smaller somehow, like it’s just ice, skates, sticks, breath hanging in the air . . . andhim.
Gabe’s already here when I show up. Flannel jacket on. Thermos in hand. That calm look he wears like armor, as if he doesn’t know it makes it impossible to stop looking at him. I want to find the chinks in that armor.
He sees me, nods once, and I walk over. No hesitation. Like this is a thing we do now.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he says, as I slide into the seat next to his as though it’s my spot.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
He holds the thermos out in offering but doesn’t say what’s in it.
I take it without thinking. Our fingers brush—just a second, just enough, but something in me jolts like I’ve touched a live wire.
“You’re competing in The Freeze skills on Friday, right?” he asks, eyes on the ice. “Jamie’s excited you’ll be there.”
“Yeah.” I nod, shifting the thermos in my hands. “I’m up for three skills.” I swallow a warm half mouthful. Cider. Nice.
I hand it back, this time careful not to touch him. Doesn’t matter. My hand still feels the shape of his.
“Good games on the road. You should be ready to show everyone where you are.”
I startle a bit, surprised at his candor, feeling the rise of my mouth. “You been watching me, Thatcher?”
I mean it to be funny, teasing, but it doesn’t come out that way. My voice is too rough, too low. Jamie’s line is off the ice, and Thatcher drags his eyes from the ice to mine.
His eyes, hazel to an almost green in this light, hold something that makes my body flame.
“Maybe,” he says with a hint of a smile, sliding the thermos back. “I do also live with the president of the Roe Monroe fan club.”
I chuckle. “That makes you what, the secretary?” I lightly knock my shoulder into his, trying to get my footing back. Instead, the warmth of his body, the solidness of him, only serves to make me more aware of him.
“You’re good with Jamie,” he says, eyes back on the ice.
There’s that bubble Thatcher likes.
“I try.”
A pause stretches between us. Not uncomfortable, not exactly. Just loaded. Like he’s working something out before he says it.
“You’re different with him,” he says finally. “I think maybe I was wrong about you.”
I glance at him. “Different how? Then I definitely want to hear about you being wrong.”
Thatcher doesn’t answer right away. He chuckles, and I swear it’s the sexiest sound I may ever have heard.
I want him to laugh like that right into the back of my neck as those sexy hands find my waist and his forearms flex as he pulls me against his solid chest. Right before he—
Jamie steals the puck, takes off down the ice. The crowd lets out a cheer. Gabe smiles—really smiles—and I watch his mouth. Can’t help it.
“You don’t pretend with him,” he says, once the puck finds the back of the net by Arch, with an assist from Jamie. He’s back to playing like he never had a bad game. We settle back in our seats. “And maybe you don’t with me either. I don’t know. This feels like the version of you I like. It’s better than the cocky asshole in GQ.”
My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
