Page 117 of A Little Complicated

My little sister’s nose is buried in a book. It’s the unabridged version ofThe Count of Monte Cristoand is girthy as shit. The pages are weathered and frayed along the edges, proving she’s read it at least a dozen times. I’m not surprised. She’s always been a sucker for reading, and I doubt she’ll tear her eyes from that monster until she’s finished, especially since our parents are forcing her to spend the night with me. They’re hoping I can convince her to apply to LAU next year instead of putting all her eggs in one basket that starts with an H and ends with an arvard, which is funny when you consider how stubborn my sister is. No one can convince her to do something she doesn’t want to. No. One. So I’m not sure why my parents think I’ll be able to.

It doesn’t really matter.

She’ll hang out with me and the boys, go to bed, read in her room all day, maybe eat a granola bar or two, and unknowingly cock block me for forty-eight hours until our Uncle Colt takes her home once he’s moved all of Dylan’s things in this weekend. But, hey. Whatever floats her boat.

Besides, I have more important things to focus on. Like how I’m supposed to enjoy today’s hockey game when I feel like I might puke if Maverick sees me wearing Archer’s number.

My mom’s right. I can’t see anything in this position. Everyone in front of me is on their feet, blocking my view as the Hawks take the ice. But it means Maverick’s view of me is blocked, too, and I’m not against keeping it this way. I feel guilty about last night. About hiding him in my closet like he’s my dirty little secret. Like I wasn’t proud to claim him, which is ridiculous. He’s the one unwilling to claim me. If only things weren’t so convoluted, maybe—

“Lia,” Mom snaps.

My legs shake as I force myself to my feet. Yup. There they are. Ten feet away. Of course, my family has seats two rows up from behind the glass, making the team nearly impossible to miss.

Finley bumps her shoulder with mine and murmurs, “Dude, your boy looks fine in his gear.”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, my gaze following Maverick as he takes the ice.

“Oo, he’s looking at you,” she adds.

I tear my attention from Maverick to Archer, who’s grinning from ear to ear. He motions to his jersey, gives my own a pointed look, and bounces his eyebrows up and down. With a laugh, I mouth, “Good luck!”

“Thanks!” he mouths back at me.

My attention slides to Maverick beside him. Again. Because I can’t help myself even when I’m trying to appear unaffected by the bastard. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable as he makes his way to the bench and sits down.

That’s a lie.

I know exactly what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling.

Disgusted.

Annoyed.

Betrayed.

Archer follows my stare, smiling at his brother beside him on the bench and nudging him with his elbow. Maverick barely budges. A moment later, he shoots to his feet and stands next to his coach, giving me his back. Within minutes, the game starts, and he charges onto the ice. It doesn’t take long until he’s shoving the Snappers’ center into the boards. A ref guides him to the penalty box. But he doesn’t look over at me. Not once. He shouldn’t. I know it. But I want him to. If only so I can have a glimpse as to what he’s thinking and why he looks like he wants to rip the world apart all because of a stupid number painted on my cheek. Or maybe I’m being ridiculous. Maybe something else pissed him off. Something having nothing to do with me.

It’s possible. Honestly, it’s more than likely.

Feeling confident with my conclusion, I cup my hands over my mouth and cheer for the Hawks as Griffin passes the puck between a Snappers’ defender’s legs. Everett catches it near the goalie and slips it into the bottom left corner, scoring the game’s first goal.

Finley and her parents go wild, and so do the rest of us.

Another few minutes pass, and both Maverick and Archer are on the ice, cornering the Snappers’ center again. The center dodges Maverick, but Archer slams into him in an instant, knocking the guy on his ass as the Snapper’s left wing steals the puck from between Maverick’s skates.

Shit. That’s not good.

Maverick darts toward him, but he’s slow. Winded almost, despite it being the first period of the game. When the left wing chips it off the board, Archer checks the right wing into the glass. The crowd loses their mind from the brutal hit, screaming at the top of their lungs as Archer steals the puck and passes it to Griffin, who scores seconds later. Archer finds me through the glass and points at me.

“That was for you!” he mouths with a grin.

I laugh and roll my eyes when another body slams into his from behind. Archer’s neck snaps forward, but all I see is a flash of red and black scuffling next to the glass. Which makes no sense because the Snappers’ colors are green and blue.

“What the hell?” Mom mutters under her breath.

My grimace deepens as I notice the attacker’s jersey number.

It’s Maverick.

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