“My ego is fine,thankyouverymuch,” I reply, slowing my stride. Stop to glide backward. “Stick around. You might learn something.”
I like that Harper is here.
I love that she’s watching me.
She saw me skate the last time she came here, obviously. But now I’m not surrounded by teammates. There’s no whistle, no shouting, no coaches.
Just me.
With a smooth, powerful motion, I load my stick, bringing it back as far as it’ll go before swinging forward with maximum force.
The blade connects with the puck with a satisfyingcrack, and it rockets across the ice, a blur of black slicing through the air.
It slams into the back of the net with such intensity that the entire goal shakes, the sound echoing through the empty rink like a gunshot.
Yes!
When I glance back at her (to make sure she’s watching), her brows are raised, her lips parted in genuine delight.
“Okay,” she calls. “That was kind of cool.”
“Kind of cool?” I skate back over to the bench, stopping short of the wall. “I think you meantunbelievable.”
“Don’t push it, Westermann,” she fires back—but the way her eyes sparkle makes it clear she’s enjoying being here as much as I’m enjoying having her watch.
I lean lazily against my stick.
“You know,” I say, my smile widening. “If you’re lucky, I might even letyoutry next time.”
Harper rolls her eyes, but her smile doesn’t fade. “Oh, I’d totally embarrass you out here.”
Bold words, considering they’re probably not true. Does she even skate? It’s cute, though, that she’s boastful about it—like she thinks she could hold her own out here.
“Have you ever held a hockey stick?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug, the playful edge to her voice making my heart beat faster.
“She’s never held any kind of stick,” Macy snorts, tugging on Harper’s arm like she’s trying to physically drag her away. “Can we leave before this flirting turns into foreplay? It’s freezing.”
Foreplay?
“Flirting?” I echo, arching a brow at the accusation. The word hangs there for a moment, the air thick with tension. “Harper and I decided that’s something we’re not good at.”
Her lips part to argue.
The pause stretches long enough to make me fidget. Needing to avoid this conversation—and Harper’s intense gaze—I grab another puck from the ledge, drop it on the ice, and skate off toward center, putting a little extra speed into my stride.
“Yeah, but we’re not talking about flirting—we’re talking about hockey and how maybe you’re not as good as you think you are!” she shouts at my back.
I feel a grin tugging at my lips but don’t turn around. Instead, I line up another shot, focusing on the puck in front of me. Or I try to.
Because the problem is, I can’t stop picturing the way her lips purse when she’s teasing me, glossy and distracting.I can’t stop thinking about how I want to kiss her again later.
I need to focus. Hockey.
Shots.
Not Harper.
