“I get that. I do,” he replies immediately, offering a soft smile. “But just remember that I’d be there with you, okay? And if you get there and can only stay for five minutes, we’d leave. No questions asked.”
I shrug. “I’ll think about it, okay? But I’m leaning toward yes.” It’s as big a commitment as the one I gave my grandmother for pot roast night—aka under duress and mostly against my will—and everything in my head is already yelling at me to cancel. But I guess I’m hoping if I seem more committed, he’ll drop it for a while.
He smiles hugely before checking his watch and jumping up from the table.
“Oh shit. I didn’t realize it was so late. I better get over to the rink.” He winks at me. “See how many teeth we lost tonight.”
Effectively, it seems, my theory worked. At least temporarily.
“Good idea.” I laugh. “I’ll probably see you over there.”
“I certainly hope so.” He smiles and waves as he heads through the door, tossing his full cup of coffee into the trash at its side.
I sit there for a second longer than I mean to as the oddest, most unsettled feeling takes up shop in my gut. Nothing about our conversation was rude or inappropriate or even uncomfortable, really. He was nice and listened intently when I was talking and met my eyes with no trouble at all.
But something about it feels…I don’t know…off.
And when I stand to gather my things, the feeling doesn’t leave with him.
I push it aside, offer a wave to Shelly, Deacon, and Billy behind the counter, and head out of Honey Bee Café to make the two-minute journey to Concordia Rec Rink.
Rook’s Suburban is obvious when I enter the parking lot, and despite myself, a small thrill takes flight in my stomach.
I grab my bag and hustle inside, jolting slightly at the boisterous, violent sounds of a hockey game the instant I step through the door.
The rivalry game, it seems, is still fully in progress.
It takes me an embarrassingly short amount of time to locate Rook on the bench. His helmet is off, the sweat from his effort in the game darkening his already dark hair to onyx, and his body is coiled tight, even at rest.
He’s looking at me.
Not casually and not like he’s surprised to see me. His gaze is…fixed. Like he’s been waiting for something and doesn’t know whether it’s arrived or not.
His brother Kane sits next to him, laughing with one of their teammates in his usual jovial way, while Calloway continues their penchant for damage on the ice, but it’s Rook’s tension-filled gaze that makes me feel the quietest.
There’s something sharp in his expression. Anger, maybe. Tension. Whatever it is, it makes my stomach tighten instead of bristle.
His focus shifts suddenly, and I realize Holland has stepped up behind me.
“Glad I got to have coffee with you tonight, Kylie,” Holland says quietly. “Have a good skate.”
“Thanks,” I reply, turning back toward the rink.
Rook’s eyes are no longer on me. They’re dark and unblinking and locked on Holland’s retreating back.
And when I glance out onto the ice, Calloway has stopped skating entirely. He’s staring straight at me from center ice, his expression mirroring Rook’s in a way that makes no sense at all.
My brows draw together.
Okay.
What the actual hell is going on?
Rook
I should’ve played better tonight—I was half a second slow at least a dozen times and completely off focus the majority of the game—but even among the noise of the locker room crashing around me as my teammates lament our loss, I can’t find a fuck inside myself to give.
My head wasn’t on the ice during the game.
