Page 36 of A Little Complicated

“Fiiiine.” I give in and tuck my feet under my butt. “This afternoon, I was at the rink doing some drills and wound up playing in an impromptu scrimmage with the guys, and…” I fold my lips between my teeth, unable to voice the ending to my pathetic sob story.

Without even bothering to be sneaky, he openly stares at me, waiting for me to finish as he chews the last bit of crust from his pizza. When I don’t expand, he swallows his bite and asks, “And? How’d it go?”

I glance at the empty hallway leading to Maverick’s bedroom. After driving me home, he disappeared into his room and hasn’t left it since. I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care. Where he is or what he’s doing.

So stop caring.

I tear my attention from the hall and answer, “The scrimmage was going really well, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm…until Maverick—who was playing center at the time—scored on me twice in under two minutes.”

Archer’s eyes widen. “Shit.”

“Yeah. It was bad.”

“Sorry I wasn’t there to tell him to fuck off.”

With a snort, I lean further back on the couch, unfold my legs, scoot the pizza box over with one foot, and prop both of them on the coffee table in front of us. “You know I’m not afraid to tell Maverick to fuck off. Not that it would change anything,” I mutter under my breath. “But Maverick does what he wants. Healwaysdoes what he wants. And today, he wanted to put me in my place, which he succeeded in doing in front of most of the hockey team, so…” My voice trails off, and I pick at a few crumbs on the hoodie I’d stolen from Archer’s room as shame and annoyance battle inside of me.

“Shit,” Archer repeats.

Picking up the string of the hoodie, I run it along my bottom lip and sigh. “Yeah.”

“Well, look at the bright side. Now you know your weak spot, so maybe he can help you.”

I drop the string and quirk my brow. “Help me?”

“Yeah.” With a shrug, Archer takes another piece of pizza from his box. “Help you.”

I shake my head, way more confused than I should be, considering the unopened spiked lemonade next to the cardboard box on the coffee table. Yeah, I’m sober as a saint, but the man in front of me is talking gibberish. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Maybe he can help you.”

Sitting up, I tuck my feet beneath my ass again and clarify, “Help me with what? Hockey?”

Archer nods. “Yeah, why not?”

“I don't know, maybe because he’s…busy or has better things to do and doesn’t want to take time out of his day?”

Oh, and did I mention we hate each other’s guts?

“He’s not that busy,” Archer argues. “And even if he is, you’re a family friendandhis brother’s girlfriend. I’m pretty sure he’d be happy to help.”

“I think you’re assuming Maverick’s a lot more sentimental than he actually is. The guy’s never been attached to anything or anyone.”

Archer grimaces, proving I’m right. “He’s a fan of groveling, though,” he points out.

“And you think if I kiss his ass enough, he’ll throw me a bone and help me with a few things on the ice?”

Archer shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt, right?”

Other than my pride, sure.

Nibbling the corner of my thumb, I consider Archer’s suggestion. I love hockey more than almost anything, and Maverick is good. Extremely good. There’s a reason the Lions drafted him during his senior year of high school, and it isn’t because his dad owns the team. This is Mav’s last season with the Hawks. Next year, he’ll be living the dream of playing professional hockey, and I’m not arrogant enough to think there isn’t anything I can learn from him. But being alone on the ice with my boyfriend’s brother is already precarious enough. Considering our past, it feels like a recipe for disaster on way too many levels. And that’s without taking into account we're talking about Mav. Maverick Buchanan. The guy’s an asshole and already has a big head. I’m pretty sure asking for his help would inflate his ego to the size of a hot air balloon, not to mention the hit my pride would take if I gave him another minute of my time he doesn’t deserve.

“What do you think?” Archer prods.

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