Page 82 of A Little Secret

“Yo, Thorne,” Cameron calls.

I tear my attention from Finley at the glass. A generic LAU jersey is tied beneath her breasts, leaving her stomach on display beneath a black leather jacket and dark jeans. Her lips are painted red, and a smudge of matching crimson, black, and glitter covers her right cheekbone, though she’s too far away for me to make out what it says. LAU maybe? It could be Hawks. I pass the puck to Cameron and glance at Fin again.

My jaw locks.

What the fuck is Dreggs doing talking to her?

She rolls her gray eyes and tosses some popcorn into her mouth before those red-painted lips form a response.

Dreggs clutches at his chest like a wounded animal, shifting his hockey stick from one glove to the other and lifting his chin.

“Gather up, team!” Coach calls from the bench.

I don’t move from the blue line, though. With a playful wave, Finley and the girls head to their seats, and Everett skates away from the glass with Dreggs in tow.

“Hey, you comin’?” Ev asks as he reaches me.

I throttle my stick and nod, moving beside him and Dreggs.

He’s always been kind of an ass and has had a thing for Finley and every other girl in the friend group since the beginning of the school year. The reminder doesn’t exactly make me feel better.

I barely hear a word Coach says as he gives us a pep talk. There are too many things on my mind. Finley. Dreggs. Deemwater.

I met with the Tornadoes’ General Manager for lunch earlier today. I was right, too. They want me to take Caruthers’ position. And even though my agent pushed me to take it, I declined.

Fuck, I can’t believe I declined.

My attention shoots to Deemwater in the crowd. Part of me wondered if he’d even bother coming to the game after our lunch, but he’s here. Front and center. Guess it means I haven’t entirely fucked up my future. Not yet, anyway.

What the hell am I doing?

“Thorne, anything you want to say?” Coach asks.

Shit. How long has he been talking to me?

Clearing my throat, I force myself to focus on someone other than the girl in the stands and my precarious hockey career.

“Uh…don’t fuck up,” I tell them.

The team laughs, and I force a smile, squeezing my stick in my hands.

“Excellent captain’s speech,” Sanderson mutters dryly. “Now, come on. Let’s show our fans what we’ve got.”

Then, we take the ice.

I scan the crowd, finding Deemwater staring at me from behind the glass, when my eyes fall on Finley. She’ssucking down an Icee, and I don’t need to see inside the cup to know it’s cherry-flavored. I tear my attention from her, forcing myself to focus on the game and how important this game is now that the man who literally holds my future in the palm of his hand is in the stands.

We’re playing the Hammers. They’re a decent team, but nothing to write home about. Lining up on the left-hand side, I watch Everett skate to the center, preparing to go head-to-head with the HMU Hammers’ center.

The ref stops short in front of them, balancing his whistle against the edge of his bottom lip, and drops the puck. Everett misses it, and the Hammers’ center slaps the puck toward his waiting left wing. Bardot snatches the puck, not allowing it to make it to the intended player, and chips the puck off the boards. Racing toward it, I spin around the defenseman in my path and dribble it down the side, smacking the puck across the center of the ice toward Reeves. As soon as it hits the edge of his stick, Reeves passes it to Everett like a well-oiled machine. Hurrying into position, I wait for Everett to notice me as one of the defensemen blocks his path. Everett taps the puck through his legs, and I catch it on the opposite side, slapping the puck into the left pocket. Sirens wail around us, the red light glowing as the score updates to one to zero.

Pumping my fist into the air, I glance at the stands, searching for the coach but finding Finley on her feet instead. Her hands are cupped around her mouth while she and the rest of the girls cheer us on. When my gaze connects with hers, the girl’s smile grows, and my heart pounds faster as I return it with one of my own.

We got this.

The rest of the first period goes by in a blur. After Everett slips the puck into the pocket within ten seconds of the buzzer, leaving the score two to zero, we file into thelocker room for our first break. With my helmet tucked under my arm, I steal one of the water bottles, drinking half its contents.

“Come on, man,” Dreggs says. “It’s one date.”

---