Page 21 of Home Ice

It does include stopping to make small talk with Noah from maintenance when he calls my name. Last week, he invited me to a party he and his wife were hosting, but I made up some excuse why I couldn't go. But now he wants to tell me all about it. I try to smile and nod at all the right moments, but the truth is, I have no idea what he's saying. Every second I stand here in the hallway that leads to the training room—and to Coach's office—my heart beats louder until it's louder than any stadium I've ever been in.

Finally, he smiles and waves, and I know the conversation is over. I turn as quickly as I can. The hallway between me and the training room is empty. But past that, I see a very red-faced Brant walk out of Coach's office. He doesn't look up, and I don't know what that means. I duck into the training room like being in here could offer some shelter.

"There's my miracle worker!" Milo is sitting on a table, waiting for me. "Look, no pain." He sticks his arm out and rolls the hand around. He's like a child showing off a toy, and I can't help but smile.

"That's great Milo. I told you that you would be back to one-hundred percent before you knew it." In practice last week, Milo's stick hand caught on a post, and he strained his wrist. I saw a lot worse with the baseball team in Denver, but it was still affecting him in the net. So after a quick x-ray to make sure it wasn’t broken, I made a treatment plan for him. Just simple steps to help it heal a little faster. Things anyone could have done.

"I want you to warm me up today."

"Me?" I actually look around like a fool to make sure he's speaking to me. I hope he's not. I'm not a PT, so I don't normally help with warm-ups unless a player is injured. Plus, warming him up would involve leaving this room. And that would involve seeing, and being seen by, everyone on the team. That's the last thing I want when there could be a bounty on my head as far as I know. What if Brant's face was red because he broke and told Coach the truth?

But Milo has a look I can't say no to.

I lead him into a room just off the ice of the practice rink. The room the goalies use to warm up, and Brant is already here with a physical therapist.

I try to stay focused on Milo as I guide him through a set of warmup exercises, but it's hard when my eyes can't leave Brant. I just need one look. One little sign. But he doesn't give me anything. He keeps his eyes glued to the physical therapist, no matter how much I silently will him to look at me instead of her.

When we're finished, Milo insists I walk to the practice ice with him, like I'm some lucky charm. Brant is right in front of us. His head stays down, and he doesn't make a sound. But as soon as his blade hits the ice, Coach yells at him. Not the usual yell. This is louder and meaner and contains so many curses that Milo looks worriedly at me and apologizes. I shrug him off. I've spent the last seven years of my life around athletes and coaches.

Until now, I thought I'd heard everything, but Coach screams a couple that are new to me, including one telling Brant to go do something with a dead cow that I don't think makes any sense at all. But it doesn't matter. The message is received. Brant skates to the far side of the ice and climbs into the penalty box.

Once Milo is in his net and gives me a giant thumbs up, I back into a recessed corner between the equipment room and the coaches' box. This spot isn't as well lit as the rest of the practice rink, so I'm partially hidden. I lean against the cold metal and look at Brant. He looks up as soon as my gaze falls on him, and he gives me a quick nod. My body relaxes. I let out a deep breath as I slump against the wall.

Then he smiles—so small it almost doesn't show on his lips, but even from eighty-five feet away I see the way it lights up his eyes. My core heats, and my stomach twists. I have to find a way out of this charity thing. I can't spend time with him. There's no way he would want me to if he knew about me.

CHAPTER 18

TRY TO KEEP UP

LILY

I jump out of bed. The sheet I used as a teenager—the one with the giant pink and yellow daisies that sixteen-year-old me just had to have—coils around my feet, waiting to trip me. I look around the room, trying to find… something. Something woke me up. Something loud enough to convince my sleeping brain I needed to leap out of bed. But there's nothing out of place. My Kindle and phone are still next to the lamp on the table. There's not a giant hole in the wall, which is what I half expected. Nothing. I look around again just to make sure, and then I sit on the edge of the bed. It's barely eight. I can get at least one more hour of sleep. More if I'm lucky. My eyes close before I even lie down.

But then I hear it again. Ta ta-ta ta ta-ta ta. It's a friendly rhythm, but whoever is knocking at my door is banging it like a police officer serving a warrant. At eight o'clock. On a Sunday.

I stomp out of my bedroom and down the hall, loud enough for the person to hear. At least I hope they can. By the time I get to the door, I am so ready to yell at whoever this is. Probably someone who will smile and ask if I have a few minutes to learn how I can save money on my electric bill. They'll wish they had made out with a power transformer when I let them know what I think of being woken up this early on one of my days off.

I suck in a deep breath, ready to unleash the stream of rude thoughts pooling in my throat. I remember some of Coach's better ones from Thursday's practice, and this is the perfect chance to use them. But when I open the door, I stop. "Brant?" He looks like he hasn't shaved in a couple of days, and it's—nope, not even going to acknowledge whether or not that stubble does certain things to me. Not going to think about those eyes either, which seem way too bright for this time of day. Or the mouth that's curved into a smile that surely isn't for me, and probably isn't causing a roiling deep below my belly right now.

It's been three days since I crashed into Coach's car. Since Brant took the blame for me. I tried to catch him after practice that day, but he was already gone when I finished up. Then the next day, he barely looked at me, so I didn't want to say anything. What if he was regretting it? Wishing he didn't take the blame or wishing he didn't invite me to the Charity Bee with him. But that's exactly what I want him to do, right? To realize asking me was a mistake.

Maybe that's why he's here. He wants to tell me in person. To soften the blow as he tells me he wasn't thinking straight that morning. There have to be literally thousands of people he would rather take. And any of those thousands would jump at the chance. This is his way of letting me down gently.

"Once again you live up to the nickname, Pajama Girl." His gaze drifts down, and I realize I'm wearing an incredibly short pair of shorts and a tank top that doesn't even try to cover my belly button. I know it's too late, but I cross my arms to hide myself anyway. His eyes go down to my crossed arms and back up again. His Adam's apple rises and falls as he swallows. He stares a second more before taking a breath. "We need to prepare for this."

"Prepare for what?" I really wish I had brought the sheet so I could wrap myself with it.

"For the Charity Bee. We need to train."

I stare at him and wait for him to smile. To snort. For his eyes to wrinkle. Anything that tells me this is a joke. "You're not serious. Train for a charity event?"

He nods and motions into the house. "May I?"

"You're waiting for permission this time?" I mean it as a joke, but the words come out too sharp.

"When I was a boy, my parents were always going on about these things called 'manners.' I thought maybe I'd finally try them. Seems to have worked out well for my sister. She's always saying please and thank you. No wonder she's the successful one."

I step back to give him room to pass by, but I misjudge just how much room he takes up. His arm brushes against mine. His hairs tickle my skin and send a tingling wave through me. This was a mistake. I need to get him out of here. I need to convince him he doesn't want me for a partner. "You have a sister?" That's the thought my mouth picks to utter out into the world?

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