Katie squints suspiciously. “You did something sneaky.”
We start walking toward the parking lot together, the cool night air settling around us.
“So,” Willow says casually, “celebratory drinks?”
I hesitate. Because that’s the thing about this entire situation. The team is probably celebrating right now. They’llhave music up loud in the locker room. Zane will probably be getting dragged into whatever ridiculous tradition they have for first wins.
And I can’t be there. Not without risking everything.
Suddenly I’m exhausted. “I actually think I just need to crash tonight,” I tell my friends.
“Well,” Willow announces suddenly, clapping her hands together, “good thing we already planned something better.”
She grins. “Spa day.”
“A spa day.”
“Yes.”
Katie nods solemnly beside her. “We booked massages for tomorrow.”
Willow points at me. “You’re bruised. We’re bruised emotionally from watching you nearly die on the ice. Everyone wins.”
“And before you argue,” Katie adds, “it’s already paid for. Don’t say we’re not supportive!”
Maybe I can’t celebrate the way the rest of the team will tonight.
But standing here with them under the bright parking lot lights, hearing Willow ramble excitedly about hot stones and face masks, I think this might actually be better.
Willow nudges me again. “Also,” she adds mischievously, “we have a lot to talk about.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes,” she says sweetly. “For example… that extremely hot hockey player who keeps passing you the puck.”
“Which one?” I ask innocently. But I know exactly who she means.
She gives me a look. “Leonora.”
Katie grins. “The loud one. With the dark brown hair.”
I sigh. “Zane Blake.”
Willow’s smile widens instantly.
“Exactly.”
ZANE
Half the team is crammed around two pushed-together tables near the back, someone banging a glass against the wood while Mercer tries to start a chant that isn’t catching on. The music is terrible, the floor is sticky, and the whole place smells like fryer oil and cheap lager.
Normally I’d be right in the middle of it but tonight I keep noticing something missing.
Russo raises his bottle toward Chen across the table. “To finally remembering how to win.”
“Hear, hear,” Mercer mutters.
Bottles clink.
