Page 16 of Lovefool

I guess I should just be grateful that I didn’t get super invested in something with Lake before she showed me her true colors.

Crew’s face breaks into a smile. “That’s what I like to hear. Now run the play again.”

With a nod, everyone resumes their rightful positions before Coach can pick up on our unauthorized break, and Foster has been punching his fist into the air victoriously for making it past me. He’s unbearable when he gets the chance to show off his skills. This is the only time that little shit will be able to celebrate.

When Foster glissades back over to his side of the ice, we’ve divvied up the team into defense and offense. He primarily plays a goalie position, but Coach likes him to participate in game scenarios whenever it’s applicable.

I know my teammate—a little too well for my liking. Foster is going to try and score again because he thinks he’s clever enough to get past me. Little does he know that he only succeeded the first time because I was too momentarily entranced by my what-if crush to intercept his trajectory.

I linger to the right of the face-off, stick down, back hunched, warm breath slithering through the grid of my helmet and vanishing into the atmosphere. The little version of Lake dancing in my head has ceased to exist, and I wield my honed precision like a weapon, letting the indignant fire inside me light a fuse that wasn’t there before.

This time, when Crew knocks the puck back to his teammates and Foster scoops it up in one go, I’m arrowing straight for that son of a bitch with no mercy or brakes. I’m the equivalent of a speeding train tearing up the tracks to plow down any poor, unfortunate soul, and Foster realizes a moment too late that he’s standing in my way. I shoulder-check him as hard as I can into the boards, watching his body fling sideways as a slam reverberates off the insulated walls.

Once the disc is in my possession, I pass it to Knox, who bobs and weaves past Axel to ultimately score a goal at the other end of the rink.

“That’s what I like to see, Whittaker!” Coach yells, clapping his hands loudly.

I grimace as I slide over to Foster’s crumpled body, lending him a helping hand. He accepts it shakily, giving me his full weight.

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick to the goal next time,” he mumbles, clinging to my bicep.

“Sorry,” I apologize, though I’d be lying if I didn’t feel somewhat satisfied with my display of athleticism. And getting swept up in hockey has, in fact, punted Lake all the way in my rearview.

At least, that’s what I think before I catch her head of familiar, blonde hair bobbing beyond the plexiglass, heading straight for Coach. She’s got it tied up into a ponytail (which can only mean business), and a veneer of determination is fastened to her face. Her beautiful, perfect face.

Fuck. I never expected to see her in our rink, and now all the cool-guy points I earned from body-slamming my opponent into the next life are at risk of repossession. I freeze, staring at her despite the little voice in my head that says I’m embarrassing myself, and Foster follows my line of sight with a slack jaw.

Crew, Knox, Harlan, and Axel all hightail it over to my side, glued to the conversation that’s about to transpire between my talking stage and my hockey coach.

“What is she doing here?” Harlan asks.

She has a lot of nerve showing her face around here after going radio silent on me. She doesn’t even—shit, she doesn’t even look the tiniest bit affected by her decision. She’s acting like she didn’t tear my heart out of my chest and stomp it into oblivion. That may be an overexaggeration, but still.

Following the post-high of me showing up for our date, where I sat alone for two hours straight until the waiter finally told me that they needed the table for another customer, I wanted to crawl into a hole and quiet the restless thundering of my heart. My impressionable, two-sizes-too-big heart.

A pinch of resentment needles me toward a radioactive drop-off point. “I have no idea, but I’m about to find out.”

7

A WORK ARRANGEMENT

LAKE

Did I foolishly underestimate the six-foot-five obstacle standing between me and the Mustangs’ coach? I may have, yes.

In fact, I must be breathing in stupid particles, because Buford has probably turned half the team against me, and me being here is enough of a catalyst to start another world war. I voluntarily walked into the lion’s den with a gaping leg wound and the delusional mindset that some of the furry inhabitants are vegan.

I have to go over the logistics of the articles with Coach Lawson, and while Tamara said she handled it, it’s best if I talk to him myself. I want to make sure he’s on board with me watching practices and infiltrating his rink for a couple months.

Though, because my life loves to whip out the occasional spike strip, I’m stopped in my tracks before I can even breach his periphery.

Sutton is towering over me (as usual), a paroxysm of hurt etched into his expression. It’s in the furrow of his brows, the jut of his bottom lip, the normally warm brown of his eyes. He’s colder now; more aloof. The set of his shoulders screams professionalism, and I hate how I’ve broken his trust when I should have handled it with care.

Everything sets off a chain reaction of guilt inside of me. “Sutton, I⁠—”

“What are you doing here?” he interrupts, his voice a burr—low and intimidating but lacking the malice to classify as a growl. Like he can’t bring himself to be mad at me, which is worse than him lashing out.

Suddenly, my part-time job dips to the wayside, and there’s a breathlessness to my run-on apology that nearly bludgeons my solar plexus. I’m overheating in this igloo, my stomach is determined to revolt everything I had in the last twenty-four hours, and my heart is pounding so hard that I can feel each strained beat threaten to break through my chest’s cavity.