He smiles, not smirks.
I bite my lip again.
God, he’s handsome.
Tousled hair that never sits flat on his head. A golden brown that, in the summer, is a million shades.
His eyes, while kind, are such a pretty hue of blue that it makes you think of swimming in the ocean. That lighter than light water where you can see sand. His nose was broken senior year. Ironically, not on the ice. Pecan elbowed him in the face when Zach tried to wake him up after a party.
All the nicks and nooks that line his features, I know how they got there.
There are memories etched right in front of me. Most of them, we made together.
That nick in his lip? When I headbutted him by accident after I climbed into his treehouse and he went to help me up.
The little slice on his cheek—a defenseman’s blade after both of them ate ice on a pass that went wrong.
He’s the type of tall that makes a girl think about how smallsheis. And his strength comes with the job…
“Hat-trick alert!” I croak out, punching him in the arm, my wet nails forgotten as I push aside my dumb thoughts.
About his dumb self.
And the resurgence of the dumb crush I have on him.
“Watch it. You already wrecked my other sweater with pink nail polish,” he taunts.
“Screw that. Hat. Trick. Pow, pow, pow.” I whoop because I need him to know how proud I am of him.
My crazy, stupid feelings don’t change anything about our friendship.
He tips his head to the side and I,gulps, take note of his strong jaw and the scar beside his Adam’s apple from when Pecan clocked him there with a tire-iron that accidentally took flight—we soon learned never to let him change tires.
At least, not when we’re around.
“I knew you were going to trounce those jackasses, but you were a cut above,” I blurt out, hating that I sound throaty.
Hating these bizarre thoughts that are plaguing me.
Hating, in all honestly, that I’ll never have the right to lean in and kiss those marks that are our memories together.
“I saw the scout in the crowd.”
“You and your dad.” I roll my eyes. “You're the literal worst at communicating.”
“God forbid he shows up to watch me on his own. He has to send spies instead.”
Huffing, I default to my usual snippy self as I snag his right hand and begin painting the thumbnail, leading up to completing two for the pink and one for the stink. And yes, I’m doing this in the semi-dark, but your girl needs a distraction. Stat.
“He was impressed,” I tell him. “How couldn’t he be? You hit it right out of the park. Everyone was talking about how, with you on board, the team might take it all the way.”
“Wonder what Dad’ll say.”
“You don’t care about his opinion so why does it matter?” Because he does care. He’s just lying to himself. But he can’t lie to meeeee. “Would you play for him?”
“Like you need to ask. Hell, no.”
“What if it was the best offer on the table?”
