I laugh and head toward the seating area, and when I sit, Levi shouts out, “This one is for you, Abby.”
I laugh as he begins to hump the ice, but I can’t lie and say I’m not extremely turned on.
“Suicides,” Tate yells out.
Levi doesn’t protest; he takes off, and each time he looks over at me, he has a shit-eating grin on his face. When he finishes, he mouths, “Worth it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Levi
I prop my foot up on the wooden bench that overlooks the ice and lace up my skates. This is the first time we’ve come out to the cabin in winter since we were kids, back when our dad would take us and Leila out to skate, and once we were done, we’d drink hot chocolate from a thermos. I sometimes wish I could go back to those times, before hockey became a job, before the pressure and all the shit that comes with being professional athletes who get paid an obscene amount of money to chase a rubber puck around on ice.
Landon sits next to me, having already pulled on his skates. He looks relaxed; more so than I’ve seen him in weeks. There’s something about taking a much-needed break that makes everything feel simpler.
Tate sits down on the other side of Landon.
“You good?” Landon asks him.
“Yeah,” Tate says, testing the tightness of his laces. “Just making sure these are secure. Don’t want to take a spill out there.”
Landon leans over and looks at Tate’s skates. “Maybe I should double-check those for you. I remember when you used to actually know how to skate, but I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself now that you’re a coach.”
I bite back a grin—that’s a low blow, even for Landon.
Tate shoots him a look. “Yeah, well, I remember when you used to know how to mind your own business. Crazy how things change.”
“Low blow, Coach,” Landon says.
“You started it,” Tate fires back. “And for the record, it’s been years since I’ve played competitively. So if I’m a little rusty, that’s the excuse I’m going with.”
“Rusty,” I repeat, unable to help myself. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because I’m thinking more like completely out of shape and possibly needing training wheels to remember how to balance.”
Tate turns to glare at me. “You know what? I regret coming out here with you two assholes already.”
“You love me,” Landon says.
“Unfortunately,” Tate mutters, but he’s holding back a smile.
“Don’t worry, Coach,” I say, reaching over and patting his shoulder. “We can get you some kiddie skates if you need them—I think they have some for beginners at the pro shop. No shame in it.”
“I’m going to remember this,” Tate says. “When you both inevitably eat ice out there, I’m going to stand on the sidelines and laugh.”
“Fair,” I say, “but we won’t eat ice. Unlike some people, we’ve kept our skills sharp.”
Landon reaches over and high-fives me as Tate shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “insufferable dicks.”
“Once I’m on the ice, it’ll all come back to me,” he says with an impressive amount of bravado. “Muscle memory is a beautiful thing, even for washed-up coaches.”
“Did you just call yourself washed up?” Landon asks, with an eyebrow raised.
“He did,” I confirm with a scoff. While he might not play anymore, I have seen him out on the ice when he thinks no one is watching.
Tate stands up. “You two are the worst. I don’t know why I tolerate this.”
“Because we’re charming?” I suggest.
“Because Abby would be sad if you were not around,” Landon adds.
