"This is the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen! She’s gonna be so little."
Her shriek echoes through the rink, and suddenly every single hockey player on the ice freezes mid-drill. Even from here, I can see Coach King's head snap in our direction, his whistle dropping from his mouth.
"Sorry!" Hennessy calls out, waving the onesie like a tiny surrender flag. She turns to me, lowering her voice. "Oops."
I'm laughing until I notice Coach Kingston skating over to Ramsey. They stand side by side at the boards, talking in low voices, both looking in our direction. Coach nods at something Ramsey says, then starts skating toward us, his expression unreadable.
My eyes are locked on Ramsey. He's watching me, that goddamn smirk spreading across his face, the one that makes my insides turn to liquid heat. He winks—actually fucking winks at me—and my cheeks burn hot enough to melt the ice.
Remind me again why I decided to torture myself by watching this boy aquarium when I’m already toeing the line of being into my best friend.
I really need to get my shit together.
Chapter 10
Ramsey
My phone buzzes with a text just as I'm finishing up my nightly Reese-watching session. It's fucking pathetic how much I look forward to this—my own private peep show starring the one girl I can't have but I am utterly obsessed with. I was at practice earlier when she left so now I watch my recordings for every glimpse and scrap of her I can. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m fucking a cranky bastard if I don’t get to see some version of her when I get home.
I glance down at my screen, expecting it to be some bullshit in the team group chat, but the name that flashes across my display makes me sit up straight.
Copeland
Need a little adventure tonight? I'm bored as fuck.
A slow grin spreads across my face. Copeland's versionof "adventure" usually involves blood, violence, or some combination of the two. The last time he was "bored as fuck," we ended up breaking into the hockey arena at three in the morning to skate while high on molly. The time before that, we got into a bar fight with some assholes from St. James that left four guys in the hospital.
Fuck yeah, I'm down. What've you got in mind?
I'm already getting up from my desk, my body humming with anticipation. Reese is at Reagan's tonight for some sisterly bonding thing, which means I'm free to do whatever the fuck I want and know she’s safe at my cousin’s house.
My phone buzzes again.
The coordinates ping through, and I pull them up on my map. It's an abandoned warehouse district on the south side of town—the kind of place where you could scream bloody murder and no one would hear you. It’s perfect.
I strip off my t-shirt and joggers, trading them for black jeans, a black thermal, and my black leather jacket. Combat boots, gloves, and a beanie complete the look. I check myself in the mirror and smirk at my reflection.
The garage is cold as I swing my leg over my Aprilia, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The vibrations travel up my spine, a familiar rush of adrenaline flooding my system. I kick the stand up and peel out of the driveway, the cool night air slapping against my face as I accelerate.
The streets are mostly empty, allowing me to push my bike to its limits. I weave through trafficlights, taking corners so sharp my knee almost scrapes the pavement. The speedometer climbs past 100, and I feel fucking invincible.
By the time I reach the south side, my blood is singing in my veins, that familiar itch for violence crawling under my skin. I cut the engine and coast the last few yards, letting the bike's momentum carry me into the shadows of a dilapidated building.
I hear him before I see him—the distinctive sound of a hockey stick slapping against concrete. I round the corner of the warehouse and freeze, taking in the scene before me.
Copeland is hunched over, stick in hand, circling a guy who's tied to a metal chair in the middle of the empty warehouse. The poor bastard's face is already bruised, blood dripping from his nose onto a St. James University sweatshirt. His wrists are bound behind him with what looks like hockey tape, ankles secured to the chair legs. What is it about these SJU guys? They fucking constantly ask to have their ass beat.
A puck slides across the concrete as Cope takes another shot, this one catching the guy's shin. He howls, the sound echoing off the bare walls.
"Seriously?" I call out, stepping into the pool of light cast by the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. "You started without me? That's just fucking rude."
Copeland straightens, a grin spreading across his face as he turns to me. "Blackwood! About fucking time. Was beginning to think you'd stood me up for your little ballerina."
"Dancer," I correct automatically, leaning against a rusty support beam. "And I'm touched you were thinking about me, Cope. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying toget me alone in an abandoned warehouse to do absolutely hedonistic things to me. Very romantic."
He snorts, flipping me off. "Yeah, that's my true dream in life—to get you to fall in love with me and steal you away from your dancer. Been planning it for years."
"I knew it," I smirk, pushing off the beam and walking closer. "The jealousy, the late-night texts...it all makes sense now."
