"Sup, little dancer," Cope says, his voice gruff but not unkind. "This is Delaney and her cousin Demi. They cool to sit with you for the game?"
I smile up at them, scooting over to make room. "Yep, the more the merrier. Gives me someone to talk about your guys' asses with."
Copeland's mouth quirks up in a predatory smirk that would scare the shit out of me if I wasn’t surrounded by Blackwood men. "Don't let Blackwood hear you're checking out anyone's asses."
He turns to the pink-haired girl—Delaney—his voice dropping to something harder, more commanding. "Sit. Stay. Behave."
Delaney barks, actually fucking barks, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Guess you think I'm a fucking dog. What're you gonna do next, collar me?"
Copeland leans in close to her, their faces inches apart, tension crackling between them. "Don't fucking tempt me, sis."
Holy shit. The way he says "sis" makes it sound like anything but brotherly. There's something dark and possessive in his posture that makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat.
Delaney holds his stare for a beat longer than necessary before dropping into the seat beside me, her cousin Demi settling in on her other side.
"Good girl," Cope murmurs, just loud enough for us to hear.
"Stepsister, unfortunately," Delaney clarifies, catching my confused expression.
"Even more unfortunate for me," Copeland retorts, checking the time. "I gotta go. Coach King is gonna chew my ass out even more than he did a few fucking weeks ago."
As Copeland walks away, Delaney flips him off behind his back, and I can't help but snort.
"Fucking asshole," she mutters, then turns to me with a bright smile that completely transforms her face. "Thanks for letting us sit with you. I'm Delaney. This is my cousin Demi."
Demi waves, her purple space buns bouncing. "Hey."
"So, you're Reese," Delaney says, turning to me with a smile that transforms her whole face. "Cope talks about you sometimes. Well, more like he mentions you when he's bitching about Blackwood being obsessed with you."
I laugh, feeling my cheeks heat despite the freezing arena. "Yeah, that's me. The dancer who hangs around with hockey bros."
"So," Delaney says, nudging me with her elbow as shepulls a flask from her coat pocket, "let's talk about these hockey boys and their assets, shall we? Want a sip?"
I take the flask because why the fuck not and grimace as cinnamon whiskey burns down my throat. "Jesus, what is this, liquid fire?"
"Fireball," Demi confirms, taking her own swig. "Del's poison of choice."
"Okay, so ranking system," Delaney says, getting down to business as she points to the ice. "That one there, number fourteen. His ass is like a fucking peach. I'd take a bite out of that."
I snort, nearly choking on my second sip. "That's Cross Bettencourt. And yeah, he does squats like his life depends on it."
"What about number fifteen?” Demi asks, pointing to a tall, lanky player. "He's cute in that boyish way."
"Foxx Montgomery. Nice guy, but total fuckboy. Slept with half the cheer squad last semester," I inform them, falling easily into the rhythm of girl talk.
Delaney’s eyes flick between me and Ramsey as he barks out orders at his teammates.
"Oh, we're not together," I clarify quickly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "We're just best friends. Have been for four years now."
Delaney and Demi exchange a look that I can't quite decipher.
"Bullshit," Delaney says bluntly. "You're wearing his jersey."
I roll my eyes. "It's just a jersey. We live together, we're roommates."
"Roommates," Demi repeats, making air quotes with her fingers. "Right."
"Seriously," I insist, feeling my cheeks heat up despite the cold. "We're just friends. Really good friends."
