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I push harder through the turn, dig my inside edge into the ice, and accelerate out. Mercer sends the puck across the neutral zone, and I catch it clean, barely feeling the impact through my gloves before I move it to Jax on my left.
He sends it back—one touch.
I see Deacon closing the lane before he gets there, pull the puck in, wait until he commits, then slip it through the opening he leaves behind. Mercer buries it. The puck snaps into the back of the net.
“Again,” Coach calls.
No whistle. No break. We circle back into line. This is better. Skate. Read. React. Nothing complicated about it.
No housing crisis. No cats on my pillow. No wondering how Laney’s first day is going at Wilder House. No thinking about little Laney all grown up. For the first twenty minutes, it works.
Then Jax ruins it.
“O’Shea’s tonight?” Jax asks casually as he glides into the line beside me, reminding me I’ll be apartment hunting with Laney after practice.
I adjust my grip on the stick. “Can’t. Busy.”
He turns his head. So does Deacon. Even Mercer looks over.
Jesus Christ.
“What?”
Jax studies me through the cage of his helmet. “You have plans other than O’Shea’s after practice?”
“So? I have plans all the time.”
“No, you don’t.” They all chime in, sounding like a damn boys' choir.
“Yes, I fucking do.” But do I really? Hockey, eat, sleep, repeat.
Mercer throws an arm over my shoulders and leans in. “I call bullshit.”
“Get the fuck off me.” I jerk away.
“Oh, Cap has a hot date, maybe?” The rookie wiggles his brows.
“Nah. Everyone knows Cap doesn’t hook up with locals. Too messy.” Mercer gets a little mouthy. “Now on the road? There isn’t a puck bunny he doesn’t know.”
“Thanks for that insightful info, dickface, but wrong again.” Damn, they really do know me.
“So, it is a date?” Deacon smiles like he just solved a Wheel of Fortune puzzle. “Wait, so you only date when we are out of town?”
“No.”
“No to which?” Tallis tries to pry it out of me.
“Both.” I start to say at the same time Mercer offers his two worthless cents.
“No, it’s not a date, and yeah, he doesn’t date. At all. Ever. Period. He hooks up… on the road. The end.”
“Damn, Mercer. What are you? My secretary?”
“Ha! More like a little bitch.” Whylde skates past, almost cracking a smile.
“Only for your mom.” Mercer catches up to Whylde and smacks him on the back of the head.
Coach dumps another pile of pucks onto the ice.
