We’re quick off the ice, run through the post-game routine in record time, and load onto the bus back to the hotel. The good thing about this trip is we’re playing four teams in the Metro Division, three within about ten miles of each other, and Philly, two hours south. Which is where we’re headed tomorrow.
I pull my phone out to check the time and, fine, to see if I have any messages. It’s pushing eleven here, but Chicago’s an hour behind. If I’m lucky, Summer’s still up. I should’ve confirmed a time to call, but I was just happy she agreed to talk.
After the silent treatment this weekend, I was starting to worry these would be the most awkward months of my life. I want what we had that night at Sully’s—the ease, the laughter, the way everything between us just flowed.
Fox drops onto the seat next to mine and slings an arm over my shoulders. I slide my phone back into my pocket.
“Who you talking to, buddy?” He grins too wide.
“None of your business.”
“My ex?” he presses.
“It’s weird when you call her that,” I grumble. “You two never really dated.”
Something in my tone must slip, because his smile fades. “You’re right. I’ll stop giving you shit.” He pats my back, then sinks into his own seat. “But it was Summer?”
Sneaky fucker.
I tug at my cuff and shift my gaze to the window. “Just checking the time.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure.”
“Hey, you guys never… kissed or anything, right? Off camera, I mean. They never showed it on the show, but—”Christ, now I’m rambling.
“No. Definitely not,” he huffs, looking amused before he slides his earbuds in and pulls out his phone.
I let my head fall back, staring out the window for the rest of the drive.
By the time we get to the hotel, my legs are still shot, but my brain’s wired. I grab my bag, half-hear whatever Helm calls out, and head straight for my room.
I’m shoving the key card into the lock when Logan mutters, “Who lit a fire under his ass?”
The door swings shut on the guys’ laughter.
Ten minutes later, I’m in sweats, propped against the headboard, laptop on my thighs, Summer’s contact pulled up. I connect my headphones and hit call.
Her face fills my screen, hair in a messy bun, cheeks a little flushed. She’s gorgeous.
“You asked tocall. You’ve got to give a girl some warning for FaceTime.”
I sink into the pillows. “Is that bad etiquette? I’m out of practice.”
“Yes, but I’ll forgive you this once.” Her lips curve.
There’s a brief pause, awkward in that still-figuring-each-other-out way. My gaze sweeps over the screen, wondering if she’s still in my bed…Fuck, I want her to be in my bed. Then I catch on something else.
“Is that my sweatshirt?”
Her chin dips, eyes darting down like she’s only just remembered what she’s wearing. “Oh. Yeah. I was cold, and it was hanging around. Figured you wouldn’t miss it if I borrowed it.”
My fingers clamp around the edge of the keyboard before I force them to let go. I swallow and scramble for something normal to say. “It looks good on you,” I manage. “I don’t mind.”
Understatement of the century.
Subject change. Yes. Subject change.
“So.” I clear my throat. “I’ve got good and bad news.”
