“What’s going on here?”
The voice is flat, almost bored, but carries an undercurrent ofdon’t fuck with me. I turn to see a guy with sandy-brown hair falling into eyes as dark as coal. He’s about six feet tall, lean but athletic.
“Kyle!” Gerard jolts as if someone shoved his finger into a wall socket. “This is Drew! He’s trying out to be our new center!”
Kyle’s dark gaze lands on me, x-raying his way into my very soul. “Larney.”
It’s not a question. Somehow, he already knows my name, which is impressive and terrifying.
“That’s me.” I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Kyle takes my hand, and I immediately regret every decision as my knuckles pop.
“Goalie,” he says, releasing my hand.
I flex my fingers, checking for permanent damage. “Good to know. I’ll try not to score on you in practice.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker. But something in those obsidian eyes shifts, like he’s filing me away for future reference.
Here’s the thing, though—despite the fact that Kyle radiatesserial killer on his day offenergy, I can’t deny the guy oozes sex appeal. It’s in the way he holds himself with coiled tension and barely restrained power. Even the brooding thing works for him. If he showed up at my door in the middle of the night with a bottle of whiskey, a pack of condoms, and zero explanation, I’d let him in. No questions asked.
“Kyle’s our starting goalie,” Gerard explains helpfully, still oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “He’s really good! And scary! But like, good scary.”
“I can see that,” I say, still cradling my possibly fractured hand.
Oliver clears his throat. “Alright, children. Let’s get Drew signed up before the line gets any longer.”
The three of them turn around and approach the table as a single unit. The synchronized jiggle of their hockey butts nearly kills me.
Manning the registration list is a kid who must have wandered in from the local high school. Bright red hair, freckles for days, and these huge hazel eyes that make him appear even younger. He’s wearing a BSU hockey jersey that drowns his thin frame.
“These guys don’t need to sign up, Alex,” the guy seated next to him cuts in. He leans back in his chair, and it creaks ominously. “Gunnarson, Jacoby, and Graham are legacies.”
Holy shit.Legacies.That explains the confident way they carry themselves.
What was I thinking? I’m just some nobody from Boston. Like hell I have a shot at making it on this team. My earlier excitement deflates.
Gerard flashes Alex an easy grin. “We’re here to get our boy signed up!”
He pats my stomach for emphasis, his palm pressing against me through my shirt. My toes curl inside my sneakers because the warmth of his hand is doing things to me. And that’s not even the worst part—his hand spans nearly my entire abdominal region.
“Drew Larney,” I croak out, stepping forward before Gerard can accidentally feel me up again.
The redhead glances up at me with those doe eyes. “Are you nervous?”
I let out a laugh that sounds slightly hysterical even to my own ears. “Terrified, actually. Like, might-vomit-on-your-clipboard levels of terrified.”
Something softens in Alex’s expression. He glances at the guy next to him, then back at me. “My dad’s the coach, so I’ve seen a lot of tryouts. They’re…intense.”
Wonderful.I’m going to die on the ice, and this tiny angel child is going to watch his father scrape my remains off the boards.
But then Alex continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if you’re friends with Gerard, you’ll be fine.” He fidgets with the pen in his hand. “Gerard’s dad played with my dad back when they were students here. Anyone who knows Gerard comes highly recommended.”
I blink, processing this information. Gerard, still standing behind me like a golden retriever guarding his favorite chew toy, beams at Alex.
“Aw, thanks, Alex! Your dad’s the best. Remember when he taught me how to do slap shots in your backyard, and I broke, like, four windows?”
“Seven,” Alex corrects, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “It was seven windows.”
