Coach Donovan stridesinto the locker room, his presence filling the space as much as his voice. “Listen up! Boston College is coming in here thinking they own us. They’ve been running their mouths all week about how we’re soft, how we’ve lost ouredge.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “Tonight, we show them what Berkeley Shore hockey is about. We play smart, we play hard, and we leave everything on that ice. Gunnarson, I want you to set the tone early. Larney, I need you sharp on those breakaways. Graham, you’re a fucking wall tonight, got it?”
“Yes, Coach!” we respond in unison.
“Good. Now get out there and remind them why we’re defending champions.” His hazel eyes sweep over us one more time. “And remember—this isn’t about winning. It’s about respect. Make them earn every inch of that ice.”
As we file toward the tunnel, adrenaline pumping through my veins, a familiar figure appears in the doorway, his BSU Sports Medicine polo hanging loose on his delicate frame. His red hair catches the fluorescent lights as he clutches a medical bag.
“Sorry, I just—first night,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Wanted to wish everyone good luck.”
Gerard immediately engulfs him in a bear hug, lifting Alex clear off the ground. “Our new sports therapist! Guys, be nice to Alex, or Kyle will murder you in your sleep!”
Kyle’s death glare could melt steel, but there’s something protective in the way he hovers near Alex as the team filters past. Most guys offer friendly nods or fist bumps, treating him as the team’s collective little brother.
I hang back, adjusting my gloves for the third time. Alex approaches me, those huge hazel eyes—so similar to his dad’s but softer somehow—fixed on my face.
“Drew? Can I talk to you for a second?”
My stomach clenches. Does he know? Can he tell I used to fantasize about his father? That would be a new level of awkward, even for me. “Sure, what’s up?”
He glances around, making sure we’re relatively alone, then leans in closer. The scent of vanilla and something floral hits me—probably whatever fancy shampoo he uses. “I wanted to say…about the roller disco thing? I think you and Jackson will be amazing together.”
The words hit differently than when the other guys tease because he genuinely believes what he’s saying.
“I mean it.” He fidgets with the strap of his medical bag. “I’ve seen how you two are together. It’s…” He blushes, pink spreading across porcelain cheeks. “It’s sweet. And roller skating is all about trust, right? Holding onto each other, moving in sync. You guys already do that without wheels.”
Christ. The kid has more insight than half the psychology majors on campus. My chest tightens, but not in a bad way. More like when you’re at the top of a roller coaster, knowing the drop is coming but excited anyway.
“Thanks, Alex. That means a lot.”
“Plus,” he adds with a shy smile, “Elliot says that Jackson talks about you constantly when they hang out. Like, even before you two got together. It was always ‘Drew said this’ or ‘Drew did that.’ Kyle and I used to take bets on when you’d figure it out.”
My heart does this stupid stuttering thing. Jackson talks about me? To other people? The possibility that this might not be as one-sided as I thought sends warmth flooding through my chest. But no—I can’t let myself go there. This is fake. Temporary. Spring break will come, we’ll stage some amicable breakup, and I’ll go back to meaningless hookups while he finds some nice girl who deserves him.
“Earth to Drew?” Oliver’s voice snaps me back. “We’ve got a game to win. You can moon over your boyfriend later.”
“I’m not mooning,” I protest, but Alex’s knowing smirk suggests otherwise.
“Good luck out there,” he says softly. “I’ll be watching from the bench. Try not to get too banged up on my first night, okay?”
“No promises,” I grin, then impulsively ruffle his hair. He squeaks in protest but doesn’t pull away.
As I jog toward the tunnel, the familiar pregame energy crackling through my veins, Alex’s words replay in my mind. Jackson talks about me. We move in sync. We…
No. Focus, Drew. Hockey first, emotional crisis later.
The roar of the crowd hits me as I burst onto the ice, and somewhere in those stands is Jackson Monroe, wearing my jersey, my name across his back.
18
JACKSON
Fucking hell.People are staring at me as if I’m a zoo animal who can juggle. I slouch deeper into Drew’s jersey—number 27 with LARNEY blazoned across the back—and try to become one with the plastic seat.
“Is that girl seriously taking a panoramic shot?” I mutter to Elliot, who’s wearing Gerard’s massive jersey that threatens to swallow him whole.
“Amateur. Last semester, someone brought a DSLR with a telephoto lens. Sat two rows behind me for three games straight before security finally kicked them out.”
“Jesus.” I pull the jersey up, which only makes things worse. “How did you not lose your mind?”
