We’re up by two as the clock winds down in the third, and once again, I find myself scanning the seats for a certain curly-haired liar. I don’t know why. She’s the last person I want to see, and I still don’t trust that our night together wasn’t some elaborate plan. Seriously, the odds of us randomly working for the same team are practically nonexistent.
I narrowly dodge being checked as I fight for possession of the puck behind the Stags’ goal.
“Dude, get your head in the game,” Griffin shouts at me as he picks the puck out of the melee and swings around the goal. He taps it to Maddox, who takes the shot, but it’s deflected by Denver’s goalie.
Frustrated, I growl because Griffin’s right. My head is all over the place. My dad, Blair, the pressure I feel to make it to the Cup this year… All of it makes my play more aggressive and my hits harder, but it also makes my mind more prone to wander.
Ten seconds left on the clock.
We battle it out with Denver’s defense, trying to sink one more in the net, but the buzzer sounds before we can.
“Hell, yeah,” Maddox cheers, clapping me on the back. “Good game, Byrne.”
“Good game, Graves.”
My friend and captain eyes me as we skate off the ice. “You good, man?”
“Yeah.” I sigh deeply. Clearly, I need to get my shit together and control my face or I’m going to be answering that question again and again tonight. No thanks. “I’m good.”
“All right. Well, you know I’m here if you ever want to talk.”
“I know. Thanks, Madds.”
Maddox grins. “Anytime. Now get showered and wipe that frown off your face, or Isla’s going to mother-hen you.”
That pulls a chuckle from me. Maddox isn’t wrong. His wife is a spitfire, but she’s also a teacher. She has that nurturing thing down pat, and she’s not afraid to use it.
But I don’t need to be nurtured. Haven’t since I was a boy, and I don’t need someone to start now.
“Right. Let’s get this whole thing over with, then I’m dragging your ass to the bar with me.”
Maddox chuckles, but I mean it. I need a night with my boys, and maybe some gorgeous stranger with long hair I can wrap around my fist and long legs to wrap around my hips.
thirteen
LOGAN
A wallof sound hits me when I step into the large room full of employees and family. Griffin, Maddox, and Ryder quickly pull away as they spot their women, leaving me with Sebastian. The last two single men standing in our group.
Scanning the room, I watch as players embrace their significant others, some guys smiling brightly as excited kids leap into their arms. I try to remember if my dad ever caught me like that. If I’d ever been that excited to see him.
I can’t recall a single instance.
People smile and say hi to me and Sebastian, making it painfully clear how few of their names I know. Bash doesn’t seem to have that issue, greeting employees by name, asking questions, and making polite conversation. I pretend to pay attention, nodding along for a few minutes, but then my eyes scan the room.
Is she here?
I hope not.
Deciding that if I have to be here, I might as well take advantage of the free food, I start toward the snack table beforenoticing a huge ice cream bar. Probably not the smartest thing to eat after a big game, but screw it. They have almost every topping you could think of, and if I can’t enjoy a cold beer at Chasers, I can enjoy a cold ice-cream sundae. I’m loading the double scoop of vanilla with hot fudge and cookie crumbles when the voice of a teenage boy demands my attention.
“Holy shit. You’re Logan Byrne. You were a beast out there tonight, man.”
I may be a lot of things, but dismissive of a kid will never be one of them. I know all too well how that feels. Pasting on a smile, I turn to see not one, but two tall teenage boys standing there, gaping at me. The one who spoke is a couple of inches shorter than the boy behind him, with dark, close-cropped hair, and a bright smile overtaking his golden-skinned face.
The other boy’s skin is a shade darker, but they could be related. Cousins, maybe? He’s smiling too but looks less sure of himself and his place here. He has his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and his amber eyes make contact with mine but don’t maintain it. His caramel-brown curls bounce when he tips his chin down. He stares at the floor like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
“Dude, you must be sore after all those hits, right?” the first boy asks, drawing my attention back.
