Page 149

“Fine?”

“Fine. You can go face my father alone.”

“Thank you.”

I lean in and kiss her, and when I pull back, she’s still smiling at me.

For the first time since this thing between us started, the idea of Brennan knowing doesn’t feel like the end of the world.

It just feels overdue.

***

The next morning, I’m halfway through tying my left skate when Cole drops into the stall beside mine with his phone already out.

“You need to see this.”

“I really don’t. I need my head straight for this. I’ve got important plans.”

“You really do.”

Something in his voice makes me look up.

He turns the screen toward me.

It takes about two seconds for my stomach to drop.

The video is maybe fifteen seconds long, shaky and shot from across the parking lot after the game last night. It’s me and Quinn standing beside my car, close enough that nobody watching is going to mistake it for a casual conversation. It must have been after Coach left. My hands are on her waist. Hers are fisted in the front of my jacket. At one point, I lean down until our foreheads touch.

We don’t even kiss.

Doesn’t matter.

The caption does the rest.

@rinkrat_lex: not WYATT LARKIN getting cozy with coach’s daughter #LAIce

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Two thousand likes. The number ticks up while I'm staring at it.

"How long's this been up?"

"Six hours."

Camden's already got his own phone out by the time I look up, thumb scrolling. "It's on three different pages now. Somebody made a compilation."

"A compilation of what?"

"You. Looking constipated at practice for like six weeks straight."

He turns his own screen toward me, and there's a whole thread built out of screenshots of blown drills, dated, stitched next to a screenshot of a game recap calling me "unusually sharp defensively this stretch." Somebody's taken six weeks of practice video and box scores and turned it into a whole timeline.

Shit.

"This is insane."