Page 48 of Puck Me Back to Life

The smile he's trying to hide gives him away.

He slides the phone back into his pocket. A few minutes pass before he speaks again, this time without looking up from the book.

“I would have given it to you.”

The comment catches me off guard.

His eyes are still on the page, as if he didn't just say it, as if it wasn't important.

I lean back in my seat. “Good to know.”

Hayes turns another page.

The conversation drifts off naturally after that. I spend most of the ride arguing with Dante from across the aisle while Hayes reads beside me. At some point, I stretch my legs and my foot bumps against his. Neither of us moves. A minute later, he turns another page, and the rest of the drive passes that way.

By the time the bus eventually pulls into the arena parking lot, the movement barely registers to Hayes. I swear the man could keep reading through a natural disaster.

Around us, players start to stand and pull bags from overhead compartments. Conversations pick back up as everyone prepares to leave.

Dante appears in the aisle, looking around with the dazed confusion of a man returning from battle.

“Are we home?”

“We've been home for three minutes,” I tell him.

“Good. I blacked out halfway through an argument and need to know if I won.”

“You lost.”

“I reject that outcome.”

He wanders off before I can insult him properly.

Hayes finally closes his book and carefully slides a bookmark between the pages.

“You done?” I ask.

He gives me a look. “We're home.”

“That wasn't my question.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I'll probably finish it later tonight.”

“Good.”

He shakes his head and stuffs the book into his bag.

For some reason, watching him put it away annoys me. The book means he's about to leave, which is ridiculous because we're teammates and I'll see him tomorrow. Still, the feeling lingers as we file off the bus with the rest of the team.

The afternoon sun is brighter than it has any right to be after hours of travel. Most of the players head straight for their cars, eager to get home, shower, eat, or sleep in their own beds. I stop beside the sidewalk and reach into my jacket pocket.

The cigarette appears a second later. The lighter clicks. The familiar burn settles in my lungs.

I've barely taken two drags when a shadow falls beside me.

Hayes.

He should be heading to his car. Instead, he stands next to me with both hands shoved into the pockets of that ridiculous fuzzy jacket, the book bag hanging from one shoulder, his hair still slightly messy from the ride.