“One more bite and your teeth would’ve shattered,” I whisper back.
He grins, slow, crooked…dangerous, and I suddenly remember exactly why loving him was so easy.
And why trying not to again might be impossible.
CHAPTER NINE
HARRISON
Practice ends with August hip-checking Griffin into a pile of Gatorade bottles for shits and giggles and Griffin yelling something about “worker’s comp.”
Dumbass goofballs.
I’m just inside the locker room, sweat still dripping down my neck, when I hear my phone ding. Reaching for it, I see Harper’s name flash on the screen. My chest does that embarrassing squeezy thing it’s been doing lately whenever her name is mentioned or whenever I’m around her. I clear my throat and answer, trying to sound casual and not like I’ve been thinking about her since spaghetti night.
“Hey.”
“Oh, thank God, Harrison.” Her voice is tight, breathless. Even a little stressed, and that wipes the smile right off my face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I—I’m stuck in a standstill on I-5. There’s an accident and traffic is barely moving. I usually meet Connor at the bus stop but there’s no way I’ll make it there in time.” She pauses, her breath shaky. “I’m so sorry. I would never ask you to, but…do you think you can?—”
“I’m on my way. Text me where to meet the bus.”
“Oh, my God, thank you,” she exhales. “Seriously. I owe you so much?—”
“Harper,” I cut in gently. “Just drive safe. I’ve got this.”
“Right. I will, thanks. I’ll text you.”
I hang up, grab my hoodie from my locker, and jog out of the arena like my life depends on it. Which…it doesn’t…but my sanity does.
Ten minutes later, Connor is standing at the bus stop with his backpack hanging open, hockey cards spilling out, and talking animatedly to another kid who looks like he regrets every life decision that led him here.
“Yo, bud!” I call out.
Connor whips around, his face lighting up. “Coach Harrison!” He barrels into me like a puck with legs. I catch him, chuckling at his excitement. Not going to lie, seeing him this happy to see me feels amazing.
“Your mom sent me,” I explain. “She’s stuck in a traffic jam so I thought I could walk with you and we could hang out for a bit. How’s that sound?”
“Are you kidding?” He beams, hooking his backpack, half-zipped and full of chaos, over his shoulder. “Heck yeah! Then I can show you my new hockey cards. I got a rookie Bodhi Roche one!”
I groan. “Great. More reason for him to brag.”
Connor snorts. “He would brag without it.”
The kid’s not wrong.
A few minutes later, we’re riding the elevator to Connor’s home, Connor leading the way once the doors open like I’ve never been here before.
But I have.
For spaghetti.
For bleeding fingers.
For memories that hit harder than one of Barrett Cunningham’s pissy moods.
