“Pure strategy,” I say.
Maya looks between us. Her mouth twitches once before she gets it under control.
“I have a story to file,” she says. “About a hockey game. In which two forwards kept finding each other like the puck had nowhere else to go.” She pushes up on her toes and kisses me. Soft. Her mouth warm against the cold still coming off my skin. Then she turns and kisses Cole the same way. “I’ll be home by midnight.”
“We’ll wait up,” Cole says.
“You’ll be asleep by ten,” Maya says.
“Championship-level staying awake. Watch us,” Cole says.
She walks down the tunnel. Her bag is over her shoulder, her boots on the concrete, her press credential swinging against her chest.
Cole’s hand tightens on my neck.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
Cole’s arm drops around my shoulders. We walk down the tunnel with the concrete under our feet and the noise behind us. Behind us, the arena noise thins with every step.
Elm House is dark when we get in. Maya is out of the car first, her coat on the hook before Cole gets his bag through the door, her laptop open and glowing in the living room before I finish locking up behind us. She is already typing.
Her fingers move, a rapid-fire click-clack that echoes the frantic beat still hammering inside my ribs. The championshipadrenaline hasn’t bled out yet; it’s a live wire under my skin, making my muscles twitch and my breath come short. I go to the kitchen and pour water just to have something to do. The glass feels too smooth, too cool in my hand. My thumb taps the counter in a rhythm I don’t choose—the same tempo as the final horn, the same pulse that hasn’t stopped since I skated off the ice.
Three more minutes, I tell myself.Let her work.
I last three minutes.
Then the glass hits the counter with a thud that’s louder than I intended, and I’m crossing to the couch.
Cole looks up before I reach him. His eyes flick to Maya, then back to me, the question already there. She is still typing. Fast. Focused. The blue-white glow from the laptop cuts across her face, highlighting the tight concentration in her brow. I want to ruin it.
I take his phone out of his hand and drop it on the cushion beside him.
His mouth curves. “Impatient?”
“Yes.” The word is gravel in my throat.
Maya’s typing stutters for half a second.
Then it starts again, defiant.
I grip the front of Cole’s shirt and bend down. His hand catches my hip before my mouth reaches his. The kiss hits hard, all the noise from the arena still inside my chest, the last horn still shaking under my skin. Cole opens for me immediately, his fingers digging into my waistband, his breath rough and warm against my mouth. I taste the sharp tang of Gatorade and victory on his tongue, and my own body answers with a surge of heat that has nothing to do with the game.
From the desk, the keys stop.
I don’t look over.
Cole does. His eyes cut toward her, dark and amused, before I catch his jaw and turn him back to me.
“Let her work,” I say against his mouth.
Maya exhales through her nose. “I hate both of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Cole says.
Her typing starts again, harder this time, each keystroke a punctuation mark.
I drag Cole up from the couch. He comes willingly, one hand fisting the back of my shirt, the other sliding under the hem. His palm hits bare skin, hot and possessive, and my grip tightens in the back of his shirt until the fabric strains.Mine, the grip says.Ours.
