Page 66 of The Pucking Player

“I did no such thing!” I defend. “But I did threaten to tell Mom about the time you snuck out to that concert in Manhattan.”

“I was going to see Yo-Yo Ma!” Erin protests. “It was educational. And inspiring!”

“At midnight? On a school night?”

Sophie watches our bickering with obvious delight. “I’m loving this.”

Erin laughs. “Remember the Great Spaghetti War of 2015?”

I groan. “We don’t talk about the Spaghetti War.”

“Now this I have to hear,” Sophie says, leaning forward eagerly.

“Another time,” Erin promises with a wink. “When my brother isn’t here to defend himself. We’ll do coffee, just us girls. I’ll bring photos.”

“What photos?” I ask, suddenly alarmed.

“The ones Mom keeps in that pink album under herbed,” Erin says innocently. “You know, from your scene kid phase?”

“I never had a scene phase!”

“The swoopy bangs and skinny jeans say otherwise, big brother.”

Sophie’s practically crying with laughter now. “Oh my God, please tell me you had guy-liner too.”

“That’s it, we’re leaving,” I announce, but I can’t keep the grin off my face. Watching the two women bond over my embarrassing past shouldn’t make me this happy, but it does.

Sophie wipes tears from her eyes, then unsuccessfully tries to stifle a yawn. “I really should get going. Morning anatomy labs wait for no one.”

“Of course! Go, go!” Erin pulls Sophie into a warm hug. “But we’re definitely getting that coffee. I have so many more stories to share.”

“Don’t you dare,” I warn, but my heart’s not in it. The way Sophie’s looking at me now, all soft and amused, makes me think maybe a few embarrassing stories are worth it.

24

COLOR CODE THIS, ANGEL

SOPHIE

As we climb the stairs back into the frigid night, I lean against Liam, exhausted but happy. Even through my wool coat, the cold bites at my skin. The temperature must have dropped while we were underground; our breath forms little clouds in the moonlight.

“Cold?” Liam asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“A little,” I admit, pressing closer. He smells amazing—a mix of cologne and something uniquely him that makes my head spin. “Those catacombs really aren’t built for winter concerts.”

“Should have worn an extra sweater under that fancy coat,” he teases, but pulls me closer anyway. His warmth seeps into me as we walk to his car.

The drive back to Westchester is long and quiet, but charged with the sort of tension that makes my skin tingle. Every small movement from Liam sends electricity rushing through me—the flex of his hands on the steering wheel, his steady breathing, the way he occasionally glances myway when he thinks I’m not looking. The air between us is thick enough to cut with a knife.

An hour later, we finally pull up to my dorm. When he kills the engine, the silence wraps around us like a physical thing.

“I’ll walk you up.” His words are a slow rolling thunderstorm, seeping into my bones.

At my door, I turn to face him, and the look in his eyes nearly stops my heart. The hallway is deserted, the only sound our slightly ragged breathing and the thundering in my chest.

“Thank you for tonight,” I whisper, but can’t make myself reach for the keys.

Liam steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. My lips part of their own accord, and I watch his eyes darken as they track the movement. He’s mouthwatering in a way that can’t be healthy for me.

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