She mumbles out a small thank you as I walk backward to the door.
“Wait here,” I tell her, maintaining eye contact longer than necessary. Can’t help myself. She’s just so damn good to look at. “Don't go anywhere. And—justsaying—none of this would've happened if you'd just given me your number on Monday.”
That makes her roll her eyes, and if I'm being generous with myself, I'd say I see the smallest hint of a smile.
“Right. Because I’m totally the girl who gives her number to dudes whose…personal physicsalmost drowned me,” she mutters, but I still hear it. Sassy as always.
I skate over to Coach McKibbon, who's setting up the next drill with his son, Connor. Poor guy’s been stuck on the second team forever. I mean, how bad do you have to play for your own father not to let you get out there and skate? Opposite problem in my life—my dad cares too much.
Connor tips his chin while Coach McKibbon eyes me suspiciously as I approach.
“What's up, Hendricks?” Coach asks.
“Hey, Coach. I, uh, have a bit of a situation.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “A situation.”
“Yeah, see that girl in the stands?”
He glances past me. “Hard to miss. She looks like she wants to murder somebody.” Then he turns to Connor. “What did you do?”
Connor throws up his hands. “Whoa, wait. I do a lot of things wrong, but I’ve done nothing to her. I don’t even know who she is. I’m just trying to keep my GPA alive.”
“It’s okay, Coach. It’s me she wants to kill,” I say with a half-smile.
He whips his head in my direction, looking at me with confusion. “You?No one wants to kill you.”
“Ah, that's where you're wrong. She’s my English Lit partner. We had a mix-up with our meeting time, and she's been waiting for me.”
Coach sighs heavily. “This about the paper Foster assigned onRomeo and Juliet?”
I blink, surprised. “How'd you know?”
“My wife's maiden name is Foster. Same Professor Foster who's been complaining about how her students can't seem to grasp the concept of tragic love despite having it shoved in their faces for the past month.”
Well, shit.
Small world.
“Look, I don't want to bail on practice, but—”
“But your grade is equally as important as your ice time,” he finishes for me. Then he smirks—actually smirks. “And trust me, my wife would kill me if I got in the way of her…pairing project.”
“Pairing project?” I echo.
He waves a hand. “Yeah, she was extremely pleased with herself when she came home the other night.”
My brows pinch. “Pleased how?”
Coach snorts. “Hendricks, I’ve been married to the woman for twenty-six years. I know the look when she thinks she’s orchestrating a love story.”
“She… thinks—me and Laura—what?”
Behind us, Connor, who has been pretending very poorly not to eavesdrop, chokes on his Gatorade, spraying a mist of fruit punch across the ice.
Coach doesn’t even look at him. “Wipe it up,” he commands, then turns back to me. “Anyway. My wife’s convinced you two have chemistry. Personally? I think she’s been watching too muchBaseball Wives, but she’s never wrong about her partner picks.”
“Uh.”
