“I do. I’m just parking here.”
“And walking to the boulevard?” I’m confused. “It’s, like, two miles away.”
He reaches for the door handle. “It’ll be a nice stroll.”
Hopping out of the Jeep, I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. I brought an oversize one in case I decide to check out any books.
“Why are you being weird?” I ask Wyatt.
“I’m not being weird. You’re the weird one. Just go to the library.”
“Jeez, Graham. Is someone on their period?”
“Shut it, Logan.” He confuses me further by locking the Jeep and then casually leaning against the driver’s door.
“What, you’re not embarking on your epic walk yet?”
“No, I’m gonna have a cigarette first. Is that allowed?” With a surly look, he fishes his smokes out of his pocket, then shoves one in the corner of his mouth while he searches for a lighter.
“Whatever.” I hike up my bag. “All right. I’ll see you in two hours.”
“Sounds good.”
I saunter toward the library, but for some reason, everything about…whateverthatwas…has triggered my suspicions. He was definitely acting strange. Wyatt’s way cooler than that. I swear he was even fidgeting when he was putting the cigarette in his mouth.
On a hunch, I enter the library but stop in the small vestibule at the doors. Then I twist around to peer at the parking lot.
Oh yeah. Wyatt’s up to something.
He stamps the barely smoked cigarette with his sneaker before walking to the trunk. I narrow my eyes when he hauls out a large black duffel bag. It’s a very familiar bag.
Bag over his shoulder, he stalks across the lot toward the enormous, boxy building with metal siding and a slate-gray roof. At the sports arena’s entrance, the glass doors are cloudy with condensation from the air inside.
I dart out of the library and hurry after Wyatt. He has earbuds in, so he doesn’t hear me coming. I catch up to him just as he slides through the doors.
He jolts when I grab his arm, spinning around. His expression darkens with displeasure when he sees me. Very deliberately, he presses a button on his phone, I assume to shut his music off.
“You’re playing hockey!” I accuse.
“Go away,” Wyatt grumbles.
“Does your father know?”
“No. And I don’t want him to. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“I don’t understand. You hate hockey.”
“I don’t hate hockey. I like hitting the ice and shooting some pucks. Or playing for fun like the Boxing Day Beatdown or our family shootouts. I just never wanted to play professionally.”
“Why are you hiding it?”
“Because I know my dad. He’ll get way too excited about this.Read more into it than it actually means.”
“Oh, God forbid we please our parents.”
He gives me a dirty look. “Blake.”
“Wyatt,” I mimic.
