I skate to the bench, not bothering to address her. I dig soakers from the box and flop down on the seat to cover my blades while taking in the scene. The boys fly back and forth across the rink during the drills, an array of cursing trailing behind them.
Shaking my head, I push off the bench and walk across theice, back toward Sam. She’s frozen in place where I left her, head tucked into her chest, and hands shoved into the pocket of her hoodie. From this angle, I can see just how much the thing swallows her.
But she’s not small. Not really.
Not with thighs like that, thick, solid, and barely contained by her jeans. It’s distracting as hell, the way her body contradicts the way she carries herself—like she’s trying to disappear when all she does is stand out. The sweatshirt hangs off her, but the curves underneath are undeniable. Hips made for grabbing. Lips full and parted like she’s holding back a thousand words. The kind of mouth that would look good wrapped around—
I snap my gaze up before my thoughts spiral.Jesus.
This is the girl who ruined our season. The last person I should be looking at like that. But the more she tries to vanish, the more I notice. The rich brown skin peeking from the neckline of her hoodie, glowing under the cold fluorescents.
That’s the problem. She looks too damn good in a place meant to break her.
I walk past her, not bothering to stop. “Are you coming or what?”
She shuffles behind me, flinching at every loud grunt or crash from the boys on the ice. I push open the door to the tunnel and lead her into the locker room. It’s dim when we enter, quickly turning quiet when the door slams shut with an echo.
I flick on the light and watch as she blinks to adjust her eyesight. Rows of lockers and gear come into view. Still hovering by the entrance, she drags her gaze around, clearly unsure where she fits in this world.
I point to the corner stacked high with equipment. “Skatesneed to be sharpened and lined up before practice. Instructions are on the side of the machine. Each player has a different cut. Get them wrong and someone can blow a knee.Again.”
She clenches her fist at that. I push open the gear room. Sticks stacked by numbers, jerseys hung up like ghosts waiting to be worn again.
“Sticks and pucks are here. Tape is in the cabinet. Learn everyone’s sizes, stick preferences, and taping styles.Don’ttouch Kane’s stick unless he tells you to.”
We continue farther into the space.
“Laundry room is there. Sweaters go in color-coded bins. Never mix them.”
She frowns. “Sweaters?”
I huff. Of course she doesn’t know shit about hockey. Why would she?
“Jerseys,” I deadpan. “There’s some special solution for getting the blood out. The machines are old, so you’ll need to babysit them.”
“God, it stinks over here.” Her face twists in a snarl.
“Yeah. Welcome to hockey. We play rough, and we play hard.”
I wait for her to protest, but she doesn’t.
“Keep the water bottles clean and full. Durning home games, keep both locker rooms stocked with water, towels, and anything else that’s needed. Don’t fuck up.”
I fold my arms, observing her. She reaches up to check the cabinet, her sleeve rolling back just enough to show a faint burn near her wrist. When she catches me looking, she quickly tugs the material down. My gut twists, and I don’t know why.
I try to cover up the strange emotion with animosity. “No one wants you here.”
For the first time since she walked into the rink, Sam stares me in the eye.
“I’m aware.”
Click.
The door shuts behind me, and the air shifts. It’s heavy and clinical. And as fake as the smile on the receptionist’s face when she told me he was ready for me.
Being ordered to my father’s office is never for a good reason. Not that much is required to set him off. Just existing irritates him. The office is spotless and sterile. He doesn’t look up but immediately starts talking.
“Why must you insist on disappointing your mother and me?”
