“Let the big boy play now.” Tyson’s taunting voice fills my ears as he glides behind the net and circles to come to a stop by the crease.
“I have three inches on you shorty,” I mutter.
I turn and skate to the corner. Landon skates away from the boards, clipping my shoulder with his as he passes. I grind my teeth and leave the ice before warm-up is even over. The coaching team watches me go, I can feel all their eyes on me, so I mutter, “Skate issue.”
I’m in the locker room when the team trickles in. As soon as Landon enters, our eyes meet, but he yanks off his helmet and turns toward the equipment room with his gloves tucked under his left arm. I follow even though I know absolutely no good can come of it. I walk slower than him because we both still have on most of our gear and our skates, and my gear weighs more than his and makes it harder for me to walk. But Landon and I both have the same superstition: we don’t take off our skates once they’re on. They stay on and laced from warm-up until the end of the third period.
I used to think it was some kind of sign or a connection that we both did that because I’d never met another player who did. Most unlace them between periods at the very least. Now I think maybe I was nuts to think we ever had any kind of bond.
The equipment room is narrow, the walls filled with skates and gloves and helmets and extra visors, and cages that can be attached to helmets if players get injured during games and have to come back out with extra protection, or their visor cracks or breaks. There’s even full sets of pads and gear for both Tyson and me. It’s a cramped space, and two suited-up hockey players are like sardines in it, but here we are.
Landon turns when he hears me enter. “Hey Pete, I?—”
Pete is our equipment manager. “We alone?”
“Yeah,” he replies, his tone icy. “I’ve got to go find Pete.”
He takes a couple of steps, and I stand like a brick wall, blocking his way out of the room. He waits, takes another step forward, but when I don’t move, he stiffens.
“You’ve hooked up with Abbott.” He blurts it out, but thankfully, his voice is low, almost a whisper.
Still, my head swings to look over my shoulder at the door anyway, ensuring we’re alone, before I reply, “Shut up.”
He blinks, eyes widening, and then he juts out his chin. “I fucking knew it. I could feel it. Fuck.”
“It wasn’t recently. In fact, I was a rookie and he was entirely single,” I whisper as fast as I can while still making sense. Clearly, he thinks I go around wrecking relationships or something. “I don’t fuck around with married people. You two were the exception. In more ways than one.”
“We weren’t married.”
“Close enough.” I pause and glance around the empty room, and to the door again. I can hear voices, but nothing close by. People in the hall and locker room. “You’re jealous?”
He looks down at the glove he’s holding. “Don’t bother lecturing me on the fact that it’s not my place to be jealous. We’re a random, sporadic hook-up at best. I don’t need to hear you say it.”
“My sister asked me if you were single today,” I interrupt, and when he looks up at me with those blue eyes wide with vulnerability, I melt. “I told her no.”
“You lied and said I was still with Angie?”
I shake my head. “I said she was out of the picture, but you still weren’t single. And then I basically banned her from shooting her shot with you. She thinks I’m trying my hand at being the overprotective Neanderthal brother. But I just refuse to let you be with someone else.”
He stares at me. His expression is unreadable. I think he’s still processing, but his brain is glitching. I’m trying desperately to control the adrenaline, making my heart pound in my ears and my limbs feel like they’re made of linguini. I don’t let myself have feelings, because I feel like this when I do. Vulnerable.
“I don’t want to be with someone else,” Landon says.
I step closer, so our jerseys brush.
“Hey, boys!” Pete’s cheerful, deep voice fills the tiny room, and I turn to face him as Landon takes a step back and holds up his glove. “Stitching on this won’t last a period. Need a new set.”
I turn sideways so Pete can move past me, and I start toward the door. “Grady, what about you?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “Unless you have a cushion to make my stool more comfortable. I’m not playing.”
I leave the room.
As I head back and sit at my locker, my head is swimming. Did that just happen?
Chapter 22
Landon
