She smiles back and responds, “Not enough.”
I kiss her again, quicker this time, softer, but just as telling.
That’s when the bar erupts.
“HEY!” Oliver shouts. “You kids cut that out!”
“I knew it!” Bodhi yells. “I give them ten minutes before they’re making out behind the jukebox!”
“You’re gonna give the guy pickle-pants, Harper.” Griffin laughs.
Scarlett fans herself dramatically. “Honestly, that was disgustingly sweet.”
Blakely grins at Harper. “Welcome to the team. You’re officially one of us now.”
“To Harrison Meers,” Ledger toasts, raising his glass. “Public displays of affection survivor.”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing, but I don’t move my arm from around Harper’s waist.
She tucks herself closer to me, clearly unbothered. “Something tells me they’ll never let you live that one down.”
“Not just me, babe,” I tell her. “You’re now part of the group, which means you’re fair game too.”
She beams. “Good. Bring it on.”
Yeah, if this is what getting razzed feels like when she’s curled into my side, smiling like she belongs there?
They can tease me all damn night.
CHAPTER TWENTY
HARRISON
Coach has the clicker.
That’s problem number one.
The screen freezes on a still shot of the opposing winger mid-stride, his stick angled just enough to be annoying.
“And here,” he says, circling the player in red for what feels like the tenth time, “is where we lose the neutral zone.”
Ledger exhales loudly through his nose and August leans toward Oliver and whispers, “I’m about to punch him in his neutral zone.”
Oliver doesn’t even look at him. “He’s on slide twenty-seven. Someone just kill me now.”
Coach rewinds the video. Again. For the fourth time.
“Watch Harrison’s gap control here,” he continues, laser pointer jittering. “It’s good. It’s textbook, don’t get me wrong. But?—”
But what?
He just said it was textbook.
“—it could be better.”
I resist the urge to bang my forehead on the table. The clip plays, the puck moves and what do you know, nothing catastrophic happens.
Probably because it was textbook.
