“I could just accidentally walk by,” Colby suggests. “Say hi. Check the vibes. Very chill.”
“You are not chill,” Eli says. “None of us are chill. We are professional hockey players. Our entire job is to sprint at problems and slam into them at high speed.”
Bobby looks from the window to me. “We could just stand here and stare menacingly until he feels uncomfortable.”
“That’s not less weird,” Gregory says.
My throat feels tight. “Guys. Seriously. Drop it.”
I try to make my feet move. They don’t cooperate.
Through the glass, Annabelle says something, her mouth moving fast. Her brows pull together, annoyance cutting sharp lines in her forehead. She frees her hands, fingers slicing through the air. She looks mad.
I should focus on that. On the fact that she is clearly not melting at his touch.
But my brain keeps looping one image. His hand over hers. Their heads bent together over coffee and history.
My phone buzzes faintly in my pocket. I ignore it.
“Okay,” Gabe says quietly, stepping closer. “New plan. We continue to get lunch and don’t turn into creeps staring through windows. Bryce doesn’t need that on top of whatever this is.”
“Agreed,” Eli says. “We already have enough fines from the league. I don’t want one from a café.”
Dex looks at me. “Or, you tell us if you want to walk in there. We will back you up. Or cause a distraction. I am very good at distractions.”
I swallow. My chest aches. “I’m not going in there.”
“Okay,” Dex says. “Then we walk away. Are you sure? Ripping that weasel's head off will work up a good appetite before lunch.”
"No," I nod, but my eyes flick back one more time.
I see her lips move, and I would bet my next paycheck that whatever she is saying is not sweet.
I wish I could hear it.
Colby’s phone chimes. He pulls it out, glances down, and swears under his breath.
“That was fast,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then turns the screen toward me.
It is a fresh post from some gossip account. A zoomed-in shot from almost our exact angle, taken by someone faster on the draw. The caption screams:
ANNABELLE HACKER HAVING COZY COFFEE WITH EX-FIANCÉ MARK CUMMINGS. SOURCES SAY THEY HAVE BEEN TALKING AGAIN.
The comments are already rolling in.
They always looked perfect together.
Knew they would find their way back.
So that hockey guy was just a rebound.
The word rebound hits harder than any check I have taken on the ice.
My fingers curl into fists in my pockets. The edges of the screen blur as my vision goes hot.
