“Ew, no—ourrules. Mutual survival pact. Don’t twist it.”
“Gina. Leave it alone.” Nettie leveled her with a flat stare, but her best friend’s smile only widened, undeterred.
“Girl,” Gina drawled, raising one brow dramatically. “Say it with me:If I’m still single at thirty, I’m going to turn over a new leaf and adopt a child of my own, turn Shannon into a decent human being with fairy dust… or simply marry Tate, because I want Gina as my sister-in-law someday.”
Nettie groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “First off, you’re messed up for referring to yourself in the third person. Second—Tate hates everyone. Including the three of us – you, me, and Shannon.”
“Most days, yeah.”
“Every day. I’d bet money on it. Besides, Shannon is prettier than I am and living a life we could only imagine. Tate has that ‘angry’ look that always has Shannon fanning herself. You know that girl likes her men big, angry, and controlling – of which, your brother is the epitome of all three things.”
“Tate has his moments – and I can assure you Shannon hasn’t got a snowball’s chance… but you do.”
“You’re twisted, you know that? Tate’s rare moments are about as often as I date – once every few years.”
“Maybe,” Gina said with a shrug, then laughed and waved her toward the car. “C’mon. Get in before the ground opens up and swallows you whole.”
“Speaking of Shannon – where is she?” Nettie asked as she slid into the passenger seat.
“Tattoo.”
Nettie’s head whipped around. “Another one? Aren’t those expensive?”
“Not when you’re dating the tattoo artist,” Gina said breezily, starting the car.
“Ahh. She’s still seeing Felix?”
“Until her sleeve is finished,” Gina quipped, tossing her a wink. “And probably a little after, if Felix has anything to say about it.”
“Y’know what?” Nettie said, trying to suppress a grin. “That actually makes sense. Sort of.”
“Potato skins?” Gina offered, hands poised on the wheel like a gambler about to place a winning bet.
“With extra sour cream.”
“And some Arnold Palmers…”
Nettie snorted. “Or you could just call it ‘tea with lemonade’ like a normal person.”
“Someday,” Gina said, slipping the key into the ignition and flashing a smile that was half trouble, half charm, “they’re gonna name a drink after me. And I’m gonna be famous.”
“For bad decisions?”
“For being amazingly sweet.” Gina winked, cranked up the radio, and threw the car into reverse with a squeal of tires. “Let’s gooo!”
Nettie braced herself as her best friend peeled out of the lot like a woman fleeing a crime scene. The service road blurred into the highway, and with the windows down, the music blaring, and the smell of asphalt and cool autumn air tickling in her nose, Nettie felt—for the first time all day—the tension start to crack and fall away.
CHAPTER 2
TATE
Tate drovehis shoulder into the other player with bone-jarring force, the crack echoing off the boards like a rifle shot. The whistle shrilled, sharp and useless, cutting across the ice but ignored. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The heat and frustration pumping through his veins demanded release, and it came in the form of raw aggression.
This was supposed to be a scrimmage.
Practice.
A simple drill where teammates played at half-speed, gave each other room, and coasted when the whistle blew. But Tate Cassidy didn’t believe in coasting. Not after clawing his way through years in Denver, where every inch of ice was fought for like it was oxygen or his very lifeblood. He hadn’t bled, broken bones, and fought through concussions just to come home and playpatty-cake hockeywith a bunch of half-wits.
