Page 23 of Neo

“Is that some passive aggressive way of saying I’m unlikable?”

This conversation is going sideways. I try to course correct.

“Are you always here…at the rink?”

“Hockey never stops.”

“So where’s Shane?”

“Why are you looking for him?” he asks, his body significantly stiffer than it was a few moments ago.

“It’s hockey practice, right?” I shrug my shoulders. “Shouldn’t he be here too?”

I’m only curious about Shane’s whereabouts because I’m almost 99% sure it has something to do with the reason why Kennedy isn’t in town, either.

“He’s out of town,” he answers flatly.

Bingo!

Something is definitely up with those two.

“I guess you like them pretty, huh?” Neo sneers.

I notice a small group of female students standing close to the glass, blatantly fawning over the players, including Neo. No wonder this so-called ice mafia is full of themselves. This must be a daily occurrence for them. Don’t these girls have better things to do?

Neo snaps his fingers in front of my face in an attempt to gain my attention, irritation clouding his pupils.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I respond.

“I said I guess you like your men pretty,” he repeats. “Am I boring you?”

“You think I’m interested in Shane because I asked you a question about him?”

“You asked where he is. That sounds like a question expressing particular interest in someone.”

“A question is just a question.”

One of his teammates skates towards us to ask Neo something. I recognize him from the posters, so this must be Bass. “Hey, Cap, we’re about to head out. You cool?”

“Yep.”

“Hey,” the guy casually says hello. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bass.”

“Hi.” I smile. “I’m Violet.”

Neo quietly observes me the entire time the other guy is speaking and continues to after his friend leaves. It makes me feel gloriously uncomfortable in all the places it shouldn’t.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, my stomach fluttering.

He doesn’t respond, and I can’t read his facial expressions for shit. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Good thing he can’t read minds, either, because I’m embarrassed about what’s on mine.

“Let’s eat,” he suddenly suggests.

“Eat?” I echo the word as if I don’t know what it means.

“Eat lunch.”

“With you?”

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