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He makes no attempt to turn the conversation back to himself or tell me what a great guy he is, like some guys tend to do. He just seems genuinely curious about me, which shouldn’t be nearly as surprising as it is.

He asks what I ended up wanting to do instead, and that leads us to my job.

When I tell him about the campaign I’ve been working on, he asks what I actually do on it, how long I’ve been with the organization, and what made me want to work for a nonprofit in the first place.

Then we somehow end up talking about the upcoming road trip, which cities he likes playing in and which ones he could happily never visit again.

The conversation stays light, almost normal, and that’s somehow worse than all the flirting.

Because I know what to do with the cocky, flirty version of Wyatt.

This version is a lot harder to dismiss.

We’re almost back to the main group when Cole Pruitt skates over to the boards, helmet under his arm, blond hair perfectly tousled even after practice.

“Hey, Quinn,” he says with an easy, careless smile. “You coming to the thing at Easton’s this weekend? You should. Bring that smile with you.”

It’s harmless. Cole flirts with everyone the way other people breathe… which is why I’m surprised when Wyatt goes completely still beside me.

I almost miss it, because it’s not tense, or angry. It’s like someone hit pause on him for half a second.

Cole doesn’t notice. He just flashes another quick grin and skates off. But Wyatt recovers fast, his grin a little brighter than before.

“Cole’s got game,” he says lightly. “Too bad it’s all surface.”

I hum in agreement, but the memory of his stillness lingers between us like a fingerprint on glass. And for the first time all afternoon, I’m not sure which one of us is more dangerous.

4

WYATT

Trespassing

The locker room smells like sweat, tape, and whatever protein shake Camden is currently obsessed with.

The stalls are arranged in a loose hierarchy: veterans on one side, rookies and younger guys on the other.

Easton has the corner stall, the one with the extra space and the good lighting, because he’s earned it.

Kai’s is two down from his, always immaculate, always organized, never a stray piece of tape or a discarded towel.

Dmitri’s stall is next to Camden’s, which is a choice that still confuses everyone given how different they are, but they’ve been attached at the hip since training camp, so nobody questions it anymore.

Theo’s stall is the one nearest the exit, which is practical for a guy who’s always running late or leaving early to pick up his daughter. His also, unequivocally, has the most personal effects, from pictures with his daughter and little pieces of art she’d cooked up for her doting father.

Cole’s is directly across from mine, which means I get a front-row seat to whatever grooming crisis he’s currently dealing with.

Today, that crisis appears to be his hair.

I drop my bag on the bench and watch him for a second. He’s got his phone propped against the mirror, some influencer tutorial playing on a loop, and he’s tilting his head at various angles like to figure out if the left side is exactly symmetrical with the right side. It’s not. It never is.

“Cole, my guy, did you get a new haircut or did a lawnmower lose a fight with your head?”

Cole flips me off without looking away. “Says the pretty boy whose barber clearly hates him.”

Jordan snorts from the next stall. “He’s got you there.”

Camden ambles over from his stall, shaking his head. He’s already got his gear on, which is impressive given that it usually takes him forty-five minutes to get ready on a good day. His pre-game rituals are legendary, and he’s superstitious to a genuinely absurd degree.