Page 10 of A Little Tempting

“It was rough,” he mutters, turning back to the weathered pages in front of him. Coach Sanderson is old school and refuses to upload the plays onto an iPad, terrified it’ll jinx us on the ice. If only he knew what losing a teammate would do.

“If we can’t get our heads on straight by the first game of the season, we’re fucked,” I tell them, driving my point home.

Everett scoffs. “Just because you don’t know how to respect the dead?—”

“Reeves is right,” Griffin interrupts. “We’re all playing like shit, and we’re all avoiding home because none of us want to walk past Archer’s room when we all know it’s empty.”

“Aunt Mia and Uncle Henry cleaned it out two weeks ago,” Everett points out.

“Because that makes it better,” I mutter under my breath.

Sometimes, I hate being the black sheep. I should be used to it by now, but the reminder of how close everyone else is compared to me can be a bitch. Everett and Griffin aren’t related to the Buchanans, but they grew up together. Their parents went to school at LAU together. Their dads played hockey together for Henry Buchanan’s NHL team, and since I was signed as well, it made sense for me to live there.

Even now, they spend most Sundays together for brunch. Everyone does. Everyone but me. Hearing Everett call Maverick’s parents aunt and uncle reminds me exactly where I fall on the totem pole. The very. Fucking. Bottom. Honestly, I’m surprised I got a room at the house with the guys in the first place. If I hadn’t become friends with Maverick during summer training, I probably wouldn’t have. The guys? They’re knitted tighter than a scarf. And me? Well, I’m the loose strand they could cut at any second.

“Aunt Mia and Uncle Henry cleaning out Archer’s room doesn’t mean everything’s back to normal.” Griff scrubs his hand over his face. “Fuck, I feel guilty for even saying I want it to be back to normal.”

He’s right. There is no normal after losing a friend or a brother or a cousin. But living the way we have? It’s fucked.

“Yeah, well, being in limbo isn’t doing us any favors,” I point out. “You think Arch would want us to sabotage our season all because we’re distracted he’s gone?”

“So what? We pretend he never existed?” Everett argues.

“I’m not saying we pretend he doesn’t exist,” I grit out. “I’m saying we honor him the way he deserves. By not being whiny little bitches.” Dropping my towel, I slide my boxers on, adding, “Let’s have a Game Night. Everyone can write down memories of Archer on the way in, and we’ll give them to Mav and his parents during our first game. And then, we’ll get shitfaced, maybe hook up with a couple of girls, and celebrate the start of the semester.”

With a quiet slap, Griffin closes the playbook and stands up. “Make it a costume party, and I’m in.”

“You wanna do a costume party?” I ask, my brows raising as his suggestion sinks in. Any Game Night is crazy, but a costume party? Those are legendary. We usually only throw one or two a year.

“If we do this, we might as well do it right,” Griffin says. “Get it done.”

I slip my shirt over my head and reach for my cell, preparing to send an invitation to the masses while ignoring an annoyed Everett at the edge of the room. “I’ll make it happen.”

3

DYLAN

Ophelia went home for the weekend. Actually, that’s a lie. She went to Maverick’s parents’ house for the weekend. And by weekend, I mean, she stopped by to grab a fresh change of clothes, since she basically moved into the spare bedroom across from Maverick’s ever since his surgery. They’ve been hooking up for a while now, and after a messy turn of events, they made things official a few weeks ago. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for Lia and all. But being left alone with a social butterfly like Finley as my sole roommate for the foreseeable future when a party is happening in the duplex connected to ours is more than I can handle.

“Are you ready yet?” Finley asks from the hallway bathroom.

When I don’t answer with an enthusiastic hell yes, her head pops through the doorway, and she narrows her eyes. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

I glance down at my sweats as I sit cross-legged on the family room couch. Fiddling with my glasses, I tell her, “I figured I’d stay in and watch a movie instead.”

“Nope. No deal.” She slips the mascara wand back into its pink tube and marches toward me. “Come on. We’re doing college the right way, with or without our third musketeer.”

“But I hate parties,” I whine.

“You hate parties because you’re still sober. Once we get you a shot or two of tequila, you’ll sing a different tune. Trust me.”

“Says the girl who doesn’t drink,” I point out.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I have epilepsy, and alcohol triggers seizures. At least let me live vicariously through you, you know? Now, up you go.” She grabs my wrists and tries to yank me to my feet, but I keep my butt planted on the cushion. With a huff, she pushes, “I already laid an outfit on your bed, and you need to put in your contacts.”

“But my head hurts,” I pout.

I probably shouldn’t pull the migraine card so early, but I can’t help it. Sometimes there are perks to being smacked in the head with a puck when you’re thirteen years old, causing you to have vision problems, equilibrium issues, and nasty headaches you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, and dammit. If I wanna use said perk tonight to get out of a party, I will.

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