Page 6 of Crossing the Top Line

He nods, bending down and gently nudging the lacrosse ball in front of him as I start the treadmill. I let him get into a rhythm, the ball clacking gently against the wood of his stick as he simulates guiding a puck down the ice. On his signal, I put my plan into action.

Oliver might be one of the best stickhandlers I’ve ever seen, able to maneuver through traffic while never losing focus or the puck. And his skill shows as I send obstacles down the treadmill toward him, the ball never leaving his control as he weaves around the orange plastic before they jump over the end of the belt and gather around his feet like fresh kills.

He’s so in the zone that he doesn’t notice when Spencer starts piling…unconventional obstacles at my side.

I run out of cones, and grin as I pick up water bottles, tubs of protein powder, a jump rope, sending them down the treadmill while trying to smother the laughter fighting its way up my throat.

“What the hell?” Oliver exclaims, just barely managing to keep the ball under control as he dodges a ten-pound kettlebell.

Spencer stops hunting and joins me at the end of the treadmill, throwing a roll of paper towels down before picking up a whole folding chair and adding it to the treadmill. I can barely breathe from laughing as Oliver physically steps out of the way to avoid taking a chair to the knees.

“You guys are jackasses,” Oliver shouts, though the scolding loses most of its heat due to the laughter he’s trying not to let out.

“That’s what you get,” I say, getting to my feet and brushing off my hands.

Spencer steps up beside me, and holds out a fist, which I bump with mine. Oliver gives us another annoyed look before rolling his eyes. Spencer and I clean up our mess, and after we’re done, he heads out, declaring he’s going to shower before dinner. Oliver, however, resumes his stickhandling drills, not really looking at me.

“Don’t be like that,” I comment once I hear the sound of running water from the floor above.

“Like what? Focused?” Oliver says, eyes looking ahead as he bends over his stick.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “What is really going on, Oli? You’ve been acting weird ever since Spencer showed up,” I say softly, stepping closer so he can hear me better.

Oliver stops at that, straightening up to meet my gaze. With the added height of his skates, he towers over me as I step up to his side, reaching out to rest a hand on his gloved one. He looks down at it before returning his amber stare to my face. Though expression has softened considerably, there’s still a hint of tension pulling at his eyes. His scent is mild, bright with the sour notes of raspberry on the back of my tongue, but I know better than to take his expression at face value.

“He’s…competition,” he says simply.

I sigh, my shoulders slumping as I try to figure out how to respond. Oli steps back, away from the treadmill, removing his gloves as he perches on the edge of one of the weight benches. He runs a hand through his dark hair, pushing sweat-damp strands back.

“We’ve worked too hard to let some new guy just…waltz in here and take that away from us,” he goes on, voice barely above a whisper.

I drag the folding chair over and plant myself in front of him, our knees close enough to touch. Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my thighs as I consider my next words carefully.

“He doesn’t have to be competition,” I start slowly.

Oliver releases a skeptical grunt, but he doesn’t say anything to contradict the sentiment. His eyebrows pull together as he thinks, the corners of his lips dropping slightly. I let him work through it in his head, even as I try to piece together my argument in mine.

Spencer is a talented player, even if his stats with the Wardens didn’t reflect that. We’ve only skated together for two days, but I can already tell that he’s a rocket ship primed and ready for launch as soon as the conditions are right. If we can get ourselves into the cockpit, then the sky’s the limit for us. But we can’t do that if Oliver keeps looking at Spencer like he killed a beloved childhood puppy.

“I don’t know how much longer we’ve got,” Oliver says at last, pulling me from my thoughts.

“With what?” I ask, confused.

He gives me a heavy look, and I read the words in his eyes, nodding in understanding. We’ve been very lucky that neither of us has been traded away so far in our careers, but there comes a point when we might end up being more valuable as a piece of a trade package than we are on the ice. And we’ve only got so many options to stay together, the safest of which is finding a way to get on the main roster and stay there. Our Plan B has been put on the back burner for the moment, allowing us to focus on Plan A.

“He’s a really chill guy, and he’s got more talent in his pinky finger than half the guys we played with on the Krewe. If you stop treating him like an interloper, then—”

“Well, he can stop eye-fucking you whenever you walk around without a shirt, and I wouldn’t have to treat him like that,” Oliver snarls softly, cutting across me.

I scoff and roll my eyes, leaning back. “You can’t blame him, especially when you’re doing the same thing,” I retort with a smirk.

He growls, but I know I’ve got him. Eventually, he sighs and runs his hand through his hair again, spine slumping.

“Fine. I’ll lay off. But he tries something—”

“I’ll be just as surprised as you, trust me. He gives off “painfully straight” vibes,” I answer, cutting him off before he can get worked up.

He chuckles and shakes his head, his lips lifting in a fond smile. God, his mouth is too kissable. For a moment, I consider leaning in and stealing one, but then I hear the water shut off upstairs.

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