“Asshole.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Wow, breaking out the playground insults. Real mature, Captain.”
“You started it.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“We're thirty-one years old and arguing like we're twelve,” Soren said, shaking his head but still grinning. “This is peak maturity right here.”
“Your fault for bringing up the knuckle thing.”
“My fault for noticing you haven't changed in over a decade?”
“Exactly.”
He laughed again, and I felt the sound of it vibrate through his chest where it was still pressed against mine. “You know what else hasn't changed? You still can't admit when you're wrong.”
“That's because I'm never wrong.”
“You're wrong right now about being never wrong.”
“That doesn't even make sense.”
“Makes perfect sense. You're just too stubborn to admit it.” He poked me in the ribs, and I caught his hand before he could do it again.
“Don't start that shit. You know I'm ticklish there.”
“Oh, I remember.” His grin turned absolutely evil. “I remember very clearly.”
“Don't you fucking dare?—”
He went for my ribs with his other hand, and I had to physically wrestle him away while trying not to laugh. We ended up in a tangle of limbs, him trying to get past my defenses and me trying to keep him from exploiting the one weakness he'd known about since we were fifteen.
“This is—stop it—this is so fucking stupid,” I managed between attempts to block him.
“You started the insults!”
“That's not how this works!”
“It's exactly how this works!”
I finally managed to grab both his wrists and pin them, and we froze like that, breathing hard and grinning at each other like idiots. His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled for real, and for a second neither of us moved.
“Truce?” he said finally.
“Truce,” I agreed, and let go of his wrists.
He settled back against my shoulder, and I could feel him still shaking slightly with laughter. “Can't believe you're still ticklish there. You'd think playing professional hockey would've toughened you up.”
“Getting hit by two-hundred-pound defensemen is different from getting poked in the ribs by assholes with bony fingers.”
“My fingers aren't bony.”
“They're drummer fingers. They're definitely bony.”
