Page 17 of Lawson

My friends give me a sympathetic look, and Monroe reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.

“Fuck him,” she says. “He can't keep this up forever,” she continues. “I mean, you're part of the Bangor Badgers now, doesn't he realize that means you can summon an army of very attractive and muscly men at any moment?”

Reese and I laugh, the levity a much welcome distraction from the anxiety twisting in my chest.

“Maybe you're right,” I say. “Maybe I should enlist Lawson's help. I do have those few speaking events I have to attend coming up, and you know Brian will be there. Maybe if he saw me with somebody...” My voice trails off, my mind considering the possibility.

Would that be enough?

Would seeing me with the same man more than a few times be enough to signal to him that we were really and truly over? That he had zero shot of winning me back?

“Do it,” Reese says. “Lawson definitely seemed game that night, so who's to say he won't be now?”

“Well, I am his skating coach now.”

“Does he know about your dad?” Monroe asks.

“No,” I say. “Outside of the vets and Mr. McClaren, no one does. I asked them all not to say anything because I have to earn this team’s respect, and them thinking my dad handed me a job won't get me very far.”

“Totally get that,” Monroe says, and Reese nods.

“You should do it,” Reese continues. “Seriously, you need and deserve some fun. And Lawson Wolfe definitely looks like a good time. Bonus if it makes your dickhead of an ex take a hint.”

I finish off the last of my iced coffee as I glance at my watch.

“We'll see,” I say and scooch away from the table.

My friends follow me as we make our way outside of the cafe.

We're all heading toward the same place, but we take separate cars because our work hours are all different. Still, as we make our way to the practice arena, it feels like I have the unflinching support of my friends, and that’s almost enough to chase away the worries I have about how far Brian is willing to go to get his way.

“Go,” I give the command after I've wrapped a resistance band around Lawson's hips, positioning myself behind him to add a weight as he shoots off across the ice with me in tow.

The first time I did this exercise with Dunning—one of the rookies—it’d been so difficult for him that he’d stopped suddenly and tangled us up to where we both fell on the ice. It took him four more tries to get it where we were a unit, where he was able to skate with the added weight with no problems.

Of course, Lawson gets it on his first try.

I doubt the man is used to being second rate at anything, whether that be starring in my hottest dreams or driving me crazy during practice. He always has to get the last word and he always has just the right quip for any instruction I give. But to his credit, he meets every exercise I assign with gusto.

Case in point, my hair flies behind me in a steady stream of wind created by the speed at which he skates despite my weight. Despite me digging in my skates just a little, to test his balance. I tug on the resistance bands to test his instincts, and he immediately corrects his position on the ice, gaining speed where others lost it.

“Is that all you got?” he calls over his shoulder, glancing at me without missing a step, that insufferable cocky grin shaping his irresistible mouth.

“It's certainly all you can handle!” I fire back.

“Try me,” he says, adjusting to take the corner of the ice.

He moves and I move, almost like we've been doing this for longer than a few minutes. This is the first time I've introduced this exercise, it being one of the more difficult tasks, and yet you’d think we'd practiced this a hundred times. Hell, it took months and endless hours of practice with Brian on the ice for us to get this kind of rhythm for our routines, and yet we never synched as well as Lawson and I are now.

Just as we're about to make the next corner, I adjust my skates, throwing my hips into the move and yanking on the resistance bands just enough to where he won't be able to predict which way he should go.

He falters, zigging when he should’ve zagged, and he doesn't engage his thighs or his core like he should. He sprawls out on his back with me falling atop him.

It's only after a couple of breaths that I realize his arms are around me—he’d caught me so I wouldn't trip over him and fly into the boards.

My eyes lock with his, my palm splayed over the gear covering his chest, both of us breathing hard.

“Told you,” I say breathless. “You couldn't handle more.”

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