Page 41 of A Little Complicated

The coffee tastes like shit on my tongue, but I drink it away.

“And don’t say you’ve been playing nice,” he adds. “Because we both know you’re full of shit. You’ve been pissing her off, which is starting to piss me off. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” I grunt. “I hear you loud and clear.”

“Good. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even learn to like her.” He chuckles and walks back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

That’s the problem.

I already do.

12

MAVERICK

“Keep your eye on the puck,” I order. My patience is practically non-existent after my conversation with Archer this morning, but keeping it in check feels impossible as I skate toward another puck a few feet away. There are at least a dozen sprawled out along the red line and a few surrounding the crease where Ophelia stands. She’s throttling the stick in her hands as if pretending it’s my throat.

“Iamkeeping my eye on the puck,” Lia snaps. Sweat trickles down her forehead behind her mask, but she doesn’t bother wiping it away. She wouldn’t be able to if she tried. The cage protecting her face is in the way, and it looks like it’salmostblocking her line of sight.

I slap the puck into the top right, barely missing her glove and landing in the net behind her. Her head snaps toward it and she seethes, “Fuck!”

“Watch. The. Puck.”

“How do you do it?” she demands. Her upper lip curls behind her mask. “How do you always know where to shoot it? And if you’re really this good, why aren’t you playing offense?”

She’s sexy when she’s fired up. Annoying. But her passion for the game makes up for it. The fire in her eyes. The steel in her jaw. It’s like a player’s wet dream. The things someone could do to her when she gets like this. The things she could do to them.

It’s why I didn’t want to bring her here. Not ever. But especially not when we’re alone in my home away from home. And after my chat with Archer? My mind’s even more fucked-up.

“Tell me,” she pushes, snapping me back to the present.

“You’re not going to like my answer.” I skate closer to the crease.

Lia’s chin inclines, and she holds my gaze until we’re chest-to-chest.

“Tell me,” she repeats.

“You’re easy to read, Opie. Maybe not for everyone, which is why you’ve gotten as far as you have. But for me?” I laugh, skating around the net, attempting to work off some of my pent-up energy. “It’s a walk in the park. I’m not this good against everyone. Just you.”

Her gaze hardens as she watches me move around her. “Tell me how. How do I make it easy for you to read me?”

I stop short in front of her again and tilt her head up with my gloved knuckle against her chin. “Your eyes, Opie. They follow where youthinkthe puck is going to be, not where it actually winds up. Don’t get me wrong. Your gut is usually right, especially when you’re facing off against an average player. It’s the most logical move. The most logical shot from the opposing team. But if you wanna play against the best, you gotta understand some people aren’t logical. They won’t be predictable. Sometimes, they’re going to do the exact opposite of what you expect.”

“They’re going to be impulsive,” she concludes.

“Yeah. And for a girl who likes to plan things out ten moves ahead and run off logic alone, it throws you off to consider someone doing the opposite.”

She nods, unoffended. “Okay. Let’s do it again.”

She moves back into the goal zone and spreads her arms wide, shifting her weight from one skate to the other, attempting to block as much of the net as possible with her tiny frame. The pads help, don’t get me wrong, but she’s still small. Still delicate. Bet she hates that part of her. How her petite body holds her back despite the hours she spends in the gym building muscle.

“Come on,” she pushes.

I head to the red line and slowly charge toward her, dribbling the puck back and forth from left to right. When I get close, I flex the stick, watching Opie’s eyes as she braces her body to push right, preparing for the puck to go in that direction since, generally speaking, a shot low and to her stick side is usually a more challenging one to stop. Instead, I hit the puck to her left.

The puck hits her glove at the last instant, and she cheers. “Yes!”

“Good job,” I tell her. “Let’s go again.”

---