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If any of those assholes hurt themselves, we were in a world of trouble. Well, more trouble since our record was pretty abysmal—though we’d somehow managed to carve out a few good wins the last several weeks. But still, even one injury could land us right back where we’d started at the beginning of the season, and I was so fucking tired of being at the bottom of the division. The only bright spot was I had Mikey beside me.

I couldn’t imagine doing any of this without him.

TWENTY-NINE

MIKEY

“How does it feel to go from a top-tier Ivy program to playing for the worst team in the league?” Will Harrison asked, taking a slow sip from his wine glass.

Will was Ethan’s nephew. He was also on the Thackeray College hockey team, and had played against Cally a handful of times when he was still at Harvard.

“Third worst,” I corrected, feeling the need to defend our reputation. We might have started out shitty, but things were looking up.

Will’s eyes darted my way briefly, before he dragged his attention back to Cally.

“It’s good,” Cally answered blandly, his grip on his beer bottle tightening slightly, the only tell that the question had annoyed him.

To be clear, it wasn’t good. Cally hated losing, maybe more than anyone I’d ever met, and he took each loss as a personal affront.

“Is it?” Will tilted his head, a dimple flashing in his cheek. “Because your dad was pretty vocal in The Athletic last week about the Marauders’ lack of scoring depth. Must be tough having your daddy publicly dissect your line’s inability to finish strong.” He lifted an eyebrow, his lips quirking to the side, and I found myself wondering if the double entendre was intentional or just the way he talked.

“My dad’s entitled to his opinion,” Cally muttered, his jaw ticking in annoyance. “We’re generating plenty of chances.”

“But chances don’t put W’s on the board,” Will pointed out, his tone grating on my last fucking nerve. “My uncle Bell’s doing all the heavy lifting on the top line while your line’s out there eating the clock.”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong—at least not entirely. While the other two guys on Cally’s line were … fine, they definitely weren’t up to his level, and everyone could see it. Cally was out there killing himself every game, trying to put the goddamn puck in the net, but he could only do so much by himself. It’d gotten to the point where even my line was having more of an impact on the overall game, and that was a fucking travesty.

“Though, to be fair,” Will continued, his voice dropping into a low purr. “You look really fucking incredible when you do manage to drive the puck down the wing. I’ve always thought you’re one of the prettiest skaters in the game.”

Cally blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden pivot from critique to compliment, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning bright red. “Uh, thanks?”

Will’s gaze dragged slowly down, taking in Cally’s broad shoulders and chest before sweeping back up to lock eyes with him, a sly, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile spreading his mouth wide. “If you really want to thank me, I can think of about ten different ways to go about that. The first one has you on your knees. Just say the word.”

Oh, fuck no.

I made a move to step between them—to tell this little shit he was completely out of line—but before I could, Cally sucked in a breath, a wave of blotchy red stretching from the collar of his cashmere sweater all the way up to his hairline, and then he spun away, practically sprinting down the hallway.

I watched him go, tracking which door he disappeared behind, before spinning back to Will. “What the fuck is your problem, man? That shit isn’t cool.”

He swirled the red wine in his glass, his expression completely unbothered. “Relax, Porter,” he said, his voice returning to that sly, smarmy drawl as his eyes finally lifted to meet mine. “Callahan knows what’s up. This is our thing.”

I sputtered, my hands balling into tight fists at my sides. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held my glare, his chin lifted slightly. “I offer to fuck him; he gets flustered. He’ll probably never take me up on it, but a man can dream.”

A spike of possessive, protective anger shot through me. “He’s not like that,” I gritted out, my eyes darting down the hallway. I locked my knees and forced myself to stay where I was instead of rushing after my boyfriend.

Will set his near-empty glass down on the console table against the wall next to him, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re kidding, right?”

I ground my molars together, shaking my head hard. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

He laughed then, a full-throated sound that wasn’t at all like the wry chuckles he’d dropped a during this weird-ass conversation. “That man loves cock as much as I do.”

I took a step toward him, snarling, “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Will and I were roughly the same height, but where I had the muscular frame of a power forward, he was all lean muscle and wiry grace—the kind of build San Diego was hoping would supply the speed and agility missing from their roster when he linked up with them next season.

He studied my face, his strange golden eyes practically twinkling. “Oh,” he hummed. “I get it.”