Page 26 of Home Ice

I pull it close and give Brant a look that warns him that this is all mine. Of course, before I get a chance to take a bite, he stabs it with his fork, breaking off a piece that's nearly half the entire omelet, and shoves it into his mouth. "Asshole. And your no-kill shelter is fine. That's a good cause. Let's just do them. Not like we're going to win anyway."

"This is great. Is there sausage in here?" He reaches out with his fork again, but I slide the container away before he can take more. "Fine. I won't share the Nutella stuffed French toast then." It's possible I moan in anticipation before moving the omelet back within his reach. But I make sure to get a bite before he takes any more. Not as good as Dad's. "And we'll compete for your charity," he says. "Tell me what it is. Teammates have to communicate with each other. If we're going to be teammates, you have to trust me."

I stare at him for a second. Then notice I've gone from chewing the omelet to gnawing my lower lip. What is it about him that makes me want to trust him? To tell him everything. Whatever it is, I can't do it. He might be fine with the truth. He would be, I'm sure of it. But once the word is out, I can't control who knows. So I can't tell him. But I could tell him about Bridges. He wouldn't suspect anything just because I want to play for an LGBTQ shelter, right? Animals are a great cause, but I've seen with my own eyes the difference that money could make for Bridges. "Tell me what you told Coach about his car, and I'll tell you."

He chuckles. "That's easy. I told him I fell asleep and crashed into it. That's why I had Kayden take me to practice Friday too. I'm pretending it's my car in the shop instead of yours. And I told Coach I would pay whatever I need to get his car fixed."

Suddenly, I'm way too sick to worry about the French toast. "How much do you think it will be? I'll give you every penny."

He shakes his head. "You're not giving me anything. I'm doing this for you."

"No, you're not. We'll work this out later, but I will pay you. What did Coach say? Was he okay with it? I heard him yell at you at the beginning of practice."

"He told me there's no way I'm starting the season opener now."

"Oh no!" I cover my mouth. Brant tries to look like it doesn't matter to him, but I know better. I've overheard him talking with the guys. I know just how much this means to him. I put my hand on his forearm, and for a second, we both look at each other. Then our eyes drift down.

I should take my hand from him. I try. The muscles in that hand, that arm, refuse to contract. All I can do is look back up at him. He's still staring at my hand. His mouth is working like he's trying to say something, and I let myself imagine what it would feel like for that mouth to work against mine. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss him now. He's less than a foot away. I try to convince myself to not do it, but the logic is so quiet compared to the sound of my heartbeats. Then his eyes shoot up to mine. Every muscle in my body tightens, and I freeze. Caught. I don't hold his stare, though. My attention drops to his lips. They part a fraction of an inch, as if they're inviting mine. I want them. More than this omelet or the French toast. Maybe more than I want the money for the charity, I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to spread this heat into him.

"I can't let you do this," I whisper. His lip quivers, and I'm finally able to think of anything but him. "Brant, I'm serious. You can't give that up for me."

I pull my hand away from his arm, and we both lean back. I try to act like I wasn't two seconds away from kissing him. "It's just one game," he says.

"We'll go into his office together tomorrow, and we'll tell him. I'll promise to pay whatever I need to get this fixed."

"And I'll tell him you're lying to cover for me."

"Brant," I huff out his name, annoyed that he's being like this.

"I'm going to take care of you, Lily. Stop trying to fight it. Now, tell me what charity we're competing for."

With a quirk of those freaking eyebrows of his, he stops any argument I might have. "What if I take you there? Tomorrow, after practice?" I know it's a mistake even as I decide to do it.

CHAPTER 21

CORN SNAKES AND COMMITMENT

BRANT

I cannot take my eyes off Lily's legs. When she told me to pick her up at her house so we could both clean up after practice, I expected the shorts or leggings I'm used to seeing her in. Not a dress. And not lipstick. She's even wearing her hair down, other than two little metal things holding it back on the sides. And she looks... damn.

"You're sure I look okay?" I gesture down at the polo shirt and jeans I'm wearing. We're on a residential street, and I still don’t know where we are. I just followed Lily's directions until she told me to park.

She smiles at me, her nose wrinkling a little, and it's the new cutest thing I've ever seen. Apologies to those two-day-old kittens Barrie and I found inside our barn when I was in middle school. "You look great." She holds her hand out like she wants to reach for me, and I hold my breath. But she pulls back and opens her door instead.

"I texted Michael last night. He's the one in charge of this," she says when she's outside the car and beside me, "Then I called him during my lunch today just to make sure this is okay. He said the kids are very excited to meet you. So, as much as it goes against your nature, try to be charming and nice."

"Cut back on my usual murdery glares and snarls. That's going to be tough, but I'll do it for you. But what kids? I still don't know what this is."

"You'll see." Her knuckles brush against mine as she looks down the street left and right. I want so much to take her hand. Just to make sure she gets across the street safely, of course. Adults can do that for other adults, right? But she's dashing across before even move a finger toward her, and suddenly, I'm glad I didn't. Because then I wouldn't be able to watch her jog across the street. Her short floral dress flows around the tops of her thighs. Her wavy hair bounces with each step. And I'm so mesmerized a tractor-trailer could barrel down the street toward me, and I wouldn't know.

I keep watching her as she goes up the steps to the porch and then rings the doorbell on a brown house that's well-kept but showing the signs of a rough past life. Lily bounces a couple of times on her heels, like she's nervous, and then turns to give me another smile. And even though I have no clue what she's leading me into, I don't care. In this moment, I would follow her into one of those houses with creepy wide-eyed dolls everywhere inside. Please don't let there be terror dolls inside. I cross the street to stand at her side.

It takes just a few seconds for the door to be opened by a man wearing the most garish outfit I've ever seen—bright red pants and an orange and pink shirt. He gives Lily a hug like they're old friends and then looks up at me. "This must be Mr. Morrison?"

"Call me Brant, please." I wince whenever I hear someone call me Mr. Morrison. In my mind, that will always be my grandpa. Never me. I shake his offered hand.

"Of course, Brant," he says. "We're obviously very understanding about preferred names here." Part of me relaxes when he says this. It's always surprised me how upset some people become when I tell them I don't like to be called Mr. Morrison, like I've insulted them by having a preference.

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