“I was just asking,” I protest, hands up and smirking, because that’s easier than admitting I’m curious about whatever has him so engrossed in his phone.
He narrows his eyes at me and then, like someone flipped a switch, the scowl melts into a smirk.
“How’s Danny?” he asks with a shit eating grin.
I groan, rolling my eyes because he’s been giving me shit about Danny nonstop. Probably grinning the whole time, imagining me getting over crush I have on his teammate.
“Nothing is going on with Danny,” I grumble, and start to turn toward my room to grab my bag.
I hear his low amused chuckle following me and a moment later, he’s in my doorway with his bags slung over his shoulder.
“Suuure,” he says.
I blink at him. Would it be rude to throw a dirty shirt at his smirking face?
“I’m serious,” I insist, crossing my arms over my chest.
He just continues to smirk and shrugs. “Fine. Keep your little boyfriend a secret.”
I groan again and I let out this pathetic little laugh I didn’t even know I had in me.
Because yeah, I’m keeping a secret.
But the secret isn’t whatever he thinks it is.
No.
My secret is that instead of picturing myself with some random guy from the baseball team, my stupid, overthinking, anxiety ridden brain keeps drifting back to Griffin.
And I swear, I am not completely insane.
I’ve decidedthe worst thing about traveling with the hockey team is that the team doctor refuses to cart around gear, and since Lauren isn’t traveling, she flat-out refused to actually show up and help prep. Which leaves me dragging around a bunch of bags and equipment that make me look like a fucking cartoon character in some shitty travel montage.
Honestly? It’s a damn miracle I love this job so much, because otherwise I’d have shot myself in the foot by now.
I’m halfway down the training hall when fuckingDannystrolls up to me with all the swagger of a dude who’s way too proud of having the exact wrong amount of self-awareness.
And don’t get me wrong, Danny is good-looking in that generic “backwards cap and a grin” kinda way but comparing him to Griffin is like comparing a lukewarm beer to a perfectly poured stout. Totally different leagues.
He just… doesn’t have what I want.
Not even close.
“Jake,” he greets me, meandering up like he’s about to propose a business merger instead of blocking my path while I’m juggling enough equipment to start my own war.
I give him a forced smile and try to keep walking, but of course — of fucking course — he steps right into my path like I’m not carrying bags that could literally knock someone out if they fell on them.
“Hey, Danny,” I grit out, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, which is tough because I already have enough emotional baggage today.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says in a tone that is way too fucking defensive.
I sigh and drop one of the bags to the ground in pure exasperation, staring at it like it might start answering life’s biggest questions. “I’ve been busy. You know how season can be for trainers.”
He hums under his breath, eyes locked on me for this long, uncomfortable minute like he’s trying to read my soul through my visible discomfort.
“Is there someone else?” he asks, casually, like he’s talking about whether we want mustard or ketchup.
Jesus fucking Christ.
