Page 70 of A Little Tempting

“And what does it prove to your sister?” I challenge. “That she’s expendable?”

With a sigh, he leans even closer, searching for an ounce of privacy in the crowded locker room. “Look, I don’t know what’s gonna happen on the ice, but I do know Dylan’s family's opinion matters to her. It matters a lot. And if I’ve learned anything about you over the years, it’s how you’re a resourceful motherfucker. You’ll figure out how to make it up to my sister whether or not you win the bet.” He hesitates, eyeing me warily. “You’re not planning to fuck her over, right?”

The question sizzles beneath my skin, leaving me more exposed and raw than I’d like to admit. The fact he even has to ask it and how I've asked myself the same thing more times than I can count.

But what’s worse is knowing I don’t have the answer. I don’t know. I’ve screwed up so many things in my life. Is it so unrealistic to think I might add ruining Dylan to the list?

Scratching the side of my jaw, I shove the carousel of questions a little deeper inside of me and cock my head. “I don’t know. Would I fuck her over?”

His eyes narrow as he studies me for a second, then shakes his head. “Nah. I think Mav’s right on this front.”

“And what’s Maverick’s stance?”

“You might act like a dick, but you have a nice gooey center somewhere in there if we can get to it. I think he’s right.”

Coach Sanderson clears his throat from the front of the room, ending our conversation as we give him our full attention. Honestly, I’m grateful for the distraction. For a moment to focus on the game instead of the girl I can’t stop thinking about or how I know I hurt her earlier this week.

Coach has been with LAU for decades, and it’s starting to show. Leather, olive skin. Bald head. White brows. Broad shoulders and the start of a beer belly despite his years in peak physical condition. I still remember how pissed my dad was when Coach approached me about playing for LAU. How my dad told him to fuck off until Sanderson stood toe-to-toe with the bastard on my doorstep. It was nice. Seeing someone stand up to my dad. Coach is a good guy, and thanks to my history with bad ones, I learned pretty quickly how to tell the two apart. Then again, it’s simply who Coach is. Sanderson isn’t afraid to face off withanyone. The refs. The fans. The opposing team. And if this is his last year—he insists at the start of every season it is—he deserves his players to do the same and blow our opponents out of the water.

After a short pep talk I barely register, Coach tugs on the whistle hanging from his neck, lets it rest on his red polo, and leads us from the locker room and down the tunnel to the rink.

Each player takes the ice when the announcer calls our jersey number. My attention falls to the stands. I’ll never get over this. This feeling. The energy. The adrenaline. It’s one of the reasons I started playing in the first place. A way to escape my shitty life and find something…better. Something to distract me. To keep me focused. To give me hope and a way out. It wasn’t easy. The equipment alone was expensive as fuck. Well, if you paid for it. I found alternative solutions. Using spare equipment at the rink. Stealing shit. Receiving hand-me-downs from the peewee coaches after they witnessed my raw talent. I was like a stray dog, and for some reason I still don’t understand, they let me hang around. Let me practice. Let me catch rides with them to away games. Maybe they knew what was going on in my trailer. Maybe they didn’t. But I’ll never forget their kindness. Their patience. Their generosity.

When my dad found out about all the things I was doing behind his back while he was either passed out on the couch or at work, he started locking me in my room. When I climbed out the window, he shoved me into the closet instead and barricaded the exit with a dresser for days.

Too bad I got my stubbornness from him, though. By the time I hit fifteen, he had given up, letting me run the streets on my own, only bothering to beat the shit out of me when it was convenient or we crossed paths, which I rarely let happen.

Shaking off the memories, I look around the arena as blown away as the first time I stepped onto the ice. The place is packed with fans, most of whom are already on their feet cheering for the home team. The Hawks.Me.Red, black, and white cover the area, along with a dappling of brown and gold for our opposing team, the Bulls. There are so few of them they’re barely a blip on my radar. Then again, everyone’s a blip on my radar as I search the rows and rows of people for one familiar face.

Where are you, pretty girl?

Then, I find her. Sandwiched between Finley and Ophelia, Dylan’s sitting in the red plastic seats with her arms folded and her cheeks painted with LAU’s school colors. She looks nervous. Cute, but nervous. Nah, cute isn’t the right word. Fucking gorgeous. The only thing missing is her glasses. It’s a shame. I hope she doesn’t get a headache from being here with her contacts.

When she catches me staring, Dylan sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. I wave, causing the fans close to her to look around to find the girl who’s stolen my attention since the moment we met.

She sinks further into her seat and shakes her head in silent warning. It makes me grin harder.

Not one for the spotlight, huh, pretty girl?

Her attention snags on someone behind me, and she smiles. I don’t bother turning around to see who the culprit is as Everett lines up beside me.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

“Let the best man win,” I taunt.

He joins me. “I plan to.”

The announcer’s voice echoing through the speakers cuts off my response, and I cross my gloves in front of me. “We want to take a few moments to show our appreciation of two key members on LAU’s senior roster. Maverick Buchanan, can you please come down here?”

Maverick steps onto the ice, his LAU jersey covering a long-sleeve black shirt and jeans. The crowd stands up, cheering wildly as he smiles at the audience. “Maverick Buchanan is number twenty-three on the Lockwood Ames University hockey team, and we want to thank him for his dedication to his teammates, his fans, and the game we all know and love,” the announcer continues. More cheering erupts as the coach strides toward him with a folded lump of fabric in his grasp. “We also want to take a moment to remember Archer Buchanan,” the announcer adds over the speakers, and whatever anticipation thrummed through the arena quiets instantly. “This would have been his fourth year with the LAU Hawks, and he’s sorely missed by his teammates, his coaches, his family, his friends, and so many more.” Coach Sanderson hands Archer’s folded jersey and the stack of letters we gathered from the costume party to Maverick, who takes it with reverence. Holding one of my wrists, I let the silence wash over me as I remember my brother. “Your teammates have gathered a few letters for the Buchanan family, and I’m told you’ll pass them along to your parents so you can enjoy them in private. But first, we’d like to have a moment of silence.” I bow my head, and so does the rest of the team. After a solid thirty seconds, the announcer continues, “May he rest in peace. And now, for the national anthem.”

The rest of the pregame business passes in a blur, and I find myself on the ice, ready to start the game.

Squeezing my stick in my gloved palms, I wait for the whistle to blow, then push off. My skates cut through the ice like a hot knife through butter as Hemmings steals the puck from the opposing team’s left wing. It darts across the slick surface, barely missing the edge of Cameron’s stick before intersecting my path. Dribbling the puck left, right, left, right, I dash around one of the defensemen when another slams me against the glass. With an oomph, the oxygen is forced from my lungs, and I shove the player off me as Griffin steals the puck from between his skates. He races toward the goal and slaps it at the left corner of the net, but it hits the goalie’s glove at the last second. The crowd boos, their frustration palpable, as the Bull’s goalie passes it to someone on his team. The guy doesn’t make it past the red line, and I smash into him, leaving the puck where it is.

“Hey, motherfucker.” I grin at the defenseman when the alarm blares throughout the arena.

Everett’s stick is raised in the air as he skates around the oval, proving he’s the reason for the goal. When his eyes land on me, he grins and raises a finger. “That’s one!”

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