Page 68 of Interference

“Oh. Shit.”

He chewed his lip. “It, um… It might be easier if I’m in the same room. If I can see what it is, you know?” The red in his cheeks deepened. “I mean, I know what it is. But if I can see it…”

“Sure.” I motioned for him to follow me. He did, and I led him into the garage. Several of my teammates sat and stood around, sodas and beers in hand as they heckled Chip, who was lining up a shot at the net. I called out, “Oh, now I see why we kept hearing them hit the wall. Chip’s shooting.”

“Fuck you, Aussie,” Chip said over his shoulder and the roar of laughter and chirping.

Simon was against the far wall, leaning on his stick, and he glanced my way. Then his gaze darted past me, and his expression faltered, lips tightening and eyes narrowing slightly. With what I thought was a sharp sigh, he reached for his beer and took a deep swallow.

I gritted my teeth. Whatever his issue was with Wyatt, he needed to get the hell over it, because it was seriously getting old.

We stood and watched for a few minutes as some of the guys took their shots. I eventually ended up with a stick in my hand, and I was pleased that three of my four pucks went in. That second one would’ve gone in, too, if D’Angelo hadn’t tickled my inner thigh with his stick at just the right moment.

“Watch it, fucker.” I pointed my stick at him. “I swear to God, I’ll do that when you’re on the faceoff dot.”

“I’ve been trying to get you to do it in the locker room for two years,” he threw back. “No one picks up on subtle flirting anymore.”

“Ooh, right.” I gave an exaggerated nod. “I forgot straight guys don’t know how to flirt.”

“Pfft. Whatever. You gonna hit that puck or not?”

I did, and after it went in, I looked at Wyatt, who’d been quietly watching with an amused grin. I raised my eyebrows. “You want to give it a try?”

Wyatt eyed the stick in my hand, but then he shrugged. “You’ll have to show me how.”

“Sure. Are you right- or left-handed?”

“Left.”

I hesitated. “Hmm.” I looked around. “Hey, Harju? Can I borrow your stick?”

“We’ve been through this, Aussie,” he deadpanned. “I don’t swing that way.”

“I don’t swing your way either. I meant your hockey stick.”

“What do you mean, you don’t swing his way?” Chip smacked me with his own stick. “You’re into dudes, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” I nodded sharply. “Hot dudes.”

The laughter that rose was almost deafening. Hell, even Simon joined in. Harju scowled. “Oh, fuck you!” But he did hand me his stick.

When I turned to Wyatt, I almost dropped the stick in question. Fuck. When had his smile started making me trip over my own feet?

I recovered, though, and quickly enough that I didn’t think anyone—including Wyatt and hopefully Simon—noticed. I gave Wyatt a quick lesson in holding a hockey stick and shooting with it. Of course, the peanut gallery had to offer their advice and override everything I said.

“Out of the way, Aussie.” D’Angelo smacked me in the chest. “Don’t let a defenseman do a forward’s job.”

I huffed. “Your mom didn’t mind letting a defenseman tap in.”

That got me a stick across the shins, which I richly deserved. D’Angelo was laughing, though; we all knew where the lines were with the shit-talking.

D’Angelo helped Wyatt figure out how to maneuver the stick, and then he dropped a puck on the floor for him. Wyatt glanced down at Lily, probably to make sure he knew exactly where she was and didn’t hit her. Then he took the shot. It hit the wall, which everyone probably expected. He jumped a little, but not like he had out in the living room.

His second shot went straight into the goal, and he beamed. “Oh, hey. This is easy. Why the hell do you guys get paid so much for it?”

“Put on some skates and let one of us body slam you,” Chip suggested. “Then we’ll see who’s talking a big game.”

Wyatt pursed his lips and shrugged. “I don’t know. Sounds kinda hot to me.”

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