“Touchy subject.”
“Fuck off.”
Coach blows his whistle, ending practice and the interrogation. I hustle off the ice and hurry to the locker room. Metal doors slam open, the showers hiss, rap music thudding.
I block everything out and type in my code with shaky hands.
Pathetic.
I’m an athlete, I take hits from two hundred-pound men for a living.
And I’m losing my shit over a five-foot-six woman who could ruin my life in one sentence.
I stare at my phone, tucked into the outer pocket of my bag.
I should hit the showers, go review film with Weston and Morrison.
Instead, I pull out my phone and tap the screen.
Delivered — Salt & Stem (9:04 AM)
There’s photographic proof of the delivery, the massive white floral arrangement taking up the entire doorstep.
Nice.
The flowers suit her. White, because she’d hate anything loud. Clean lines to match her condo.
Sunshine: The flowers…are excessive
Sunshine: And the messy comment was uncalled for
I grin down at the phone like a damn idiot, giddy. This is what she’s doing to me. I’m checking texts like a fucking teenager.
Bennett: Uncalled for? Maybe
Bennett: Accurate? Definitely
The blue dots appear and my pulse skyrockets.
Sunshine: Confidence isn’t a substitute for good judgment
Bennett: Confident’s a solid upgrade from cocky. I’ll take it
“Who’s got you looking like that?” Weston peers over my shoulder, trying to sneak a peek at my texts.
“How do you know it’s a who?” I shoot back, swiping off the text thread quickly. The best defense is a good offense.
“Because I’m your triplet. You don’t smile that dopey unless a woman’s involved.”
“He doesn’t smile like that, period.” Callum sinks down onto the bench to tie his shoes.
“Not true. I’m a happy guy.”
“Lately — not so much.” Weston locks his eyes on mine.
The guy has a point.
“Well, I’m off probation. Back on the ice, in the game.” I pull out my bag and slam the locker shut.
