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“Fuck what Nielson said,” I bit out.

Cally’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re not worried about the guys figuring out that we’re fucking?”

“No,” I answered with a hard shake of my head.

Not for one single instant did I think anyone on our team looked at Cally and me and legitimately thought we were having sex. Did they tease us about being boyfriends every now and then? Yes, but it was harmless chirping—no one legitimately thought we were together.

You’re not together, that voice in my head broke in.

Cally slid his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “Go on the date, Mikey. Meet a nice girl. Fall in love or whatever.” He lifted his shoulder, giving me a tiny half smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

I stared at him for a long time, trying to understand why his words felt so wrong. In the end, I had to admit I didn’t have a clue—or rather, I was beginning to, but it wasn’t one I wanted to look at too closely for fear of what it might reveal about my feelings for the person I definitely was not supposed to be developing feelings for.

I scrubbed a hand over my face then slid off the stool, pressing my palms flat against the countertop. “Okay,” I said slowly, that single word feeling vaguely like I was giving up. “I’ll go on the date, but only if you’re fine with it.”

A part of me—a big fucking part, I was coming to realize—really wanted Cally to say he wasn’t.

“It’s not my business either way.”

“That’s not you telling me you’re fine with it,” I pointed out.

“It’s fine, Mikey,” he breathed out. “Go on your date. Have a good time.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling strangely empty and angry to be feeling that way. “I will, then.”

“Great.”

“Great.”

We stood there for a few more seconds, staring at one another, then he turned and walked down the hall to his room and shut the door, leaving me with the distinct sense I’d just lost an argument we shouldn’t ever be having.

TWENTY-ONE

MIKEY

Paige turned out to be a physical therapist who specialized in sports-related injuries, which meant she was smart and actually knew a lot about hockey.

On paper, she was exactly my type—dark hair, wide, lush mouth, an easy laugh, and the kind of confidence that any guy who liked women would find attractive.

Before Cally and I started hooking up, I probably would’ve been trying to figure out how I could see her again without appearing too eager.

Instead, I sat there nodding along as she spoke, laughing at all the right places, while counting down the minutes until I could leave without coming off like too much of an asshole.

“What’s something you’re good at that has nothing to do with hockey?” she asked, tugging a napkin free from the dispenser and wiping up a ring of condensation from the table.

I dragged my eyes from the TV over the bar behind her, where highlights from Western Conference game the night before were being shown.

“Umm … ” I ventured, at a complete loss.

I’d never been asked anything like this before. Hockey was kind of my life, and everyone I knew understood that.

“I guess I’m good at figuring out a song within the first few notes, especially if it’s yacht rock.”

She twined a long piece of hair around her finger. “Yacht rock?”

“Every guy born before 1975 who owns a boat listens to the same twenty songs—also known as yacht rock.”

“And you know a lot of these guys?” she asked with a smile, popping a fried pickle into her mouth.