Kind of like my heart.
The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue. But that’s where they stay, unsaid. Maybe Kolby’s not the only one who’s chicken. Or maybe it’s too soon, and I’ll be brave enough to say them when the time is right. Which isn’t in this freezing cold rink, in the middle of the day, when our relationship is just getting back on its feet again.
“You finished it already?”
It takes a second for my brain to switch gears and realize he’s still talking about the book. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I binge read. I was going to ask if you had any other recommendations.”
“I’m working at V and V this afternoon. I can pick something out for you if you want. We’ve got a super fun one with the Prince of Wales and the son of the President of the United States. Or how about an uptight British barrister and the reluctantly famous son of two former rock stars?”
“Either one would be great, thanks.”
He drags his hand down my chest and abs, around my waist, and lower still to squeeze my ass. “Does that mean you forgive me and we’re done arguing?”
I nod.
“You know what that means, right?”
“Makeup sex?” I ask hopefully, pushing my groin into his and—oh yeah—I’m not the only one getting hard.
He reciprocates by kissing my jaw, his lips soft on my stubbled skin. “Good answer. But unfortunately, it will have to wait until I’m done at the bookstore. I’m due there in an hour, but I get off at seven. I can meet you at your place if you’re not busy.”
I back off and create some space between us, willing my disappointed dick to stand down. “I should be back from practice by then. But what about your sister? Won’t she be expecting you back at the dorm?”
“Are you kidding? She’s the one who told me to patch things up with you. More like threatened me, actually. She’ll be thrilled we’re spending time together. Besides, I set her up with Ian’s Netflix password and enough food to last her a week. She’ll never miss me.”
“Have you guys called your parents?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. We need to have a plan first, otherwise they’ll just guilt her into coming home and marrying Layton.”
“Wait, what?” Just when I thought this whole fucked-up situation couldn’t get any more fucked up, it does. “They want her to marry your ex?”
“Ironic, huh? Of course, they don’t know he’s my ex. Or that he’s gay.”
“Clearly.”
“That’s why Hannah took off. And why I have to make sure she doesn’t go back. I’ve got to find her a job. And a place to live. She can’t stay in my dorm room forever.”
“I know some of the waitstaff at the Biscuit. I could see if they need help. It doesn’t solve the living situation, but it’s a start.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to talk to my boss at the bookstore today. He and his partner, Finn, have a chicken farm, and they’ve got a bunkhouse full of interns to help with the workload. I’m hoping they’ll have a spot for Hannah. Then she’ll have a job and a place to stay.”
“Sounds like a great idea. Fingers crossed that it works out.” I reach for his hands and pull him away from the boards. “Come on. Once more around the rink before you have to go to work. And this time, you’re skating backward.”
21
Adam
It’s almost half past seven when I finally make it back to the hockey house after practice. Not only did it run late, I took my time in the shower. The guys ribbed the hell out of me for being in there so long, but they can go jump in Lake Champlain for all I care. I’m not going to see Kolby reeking of postpractice funk.
“Hey, Serrano.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention and my head whips around toward the direction the voice came from. What the fuck is Slags doing here, lounging on our couch with a beer in his hand like he owns the place? He’s never at the hockey house. He doesn’t live here. And none of us who do particularly like him, so I can’t imagine anyone invited him over.
He powers down the beer, crushes the empty can in his fist, and tosses it over his shoulder without caring who might be standing in the line of fire. Namely, me. I manage to dodge and weave—quick hockey reflexes—and it sails past my shoulder and lands on the wood floor, skidding to a stop under the air hockey table.
Not that Slags gives a shit. He just sits there, oblivious, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve before letting out a burp so long and loud I swear it shakes some of the plaster down from the ceiling.
Real classy. He’s a walking cliché, every bad jock stereotype rolled into one disgusting dude.
