Page 36 of Pucking Curves

Nash knows exactly how that feels. His sister almost died in the accident that killed their parents. Of course he gets it. Neither he nor Micah were at fault for those accidents, but guilt isn’t rational, especially when it comes to family.

“It’s not you that he’s mad at. It’s not her, either. It’s the fact that you two were falling right under his nose and he didn’t see it.” Nash pauses. “It’s letting go, too. She’s his baby sister. You’re his best friend. He probably feels a little like you’re both about to replace him. Give him time to process.”

“Yeah. Thanks, brother.” I meet his gaze, holding out my fist for him to bump. “I mean that.”

“Just remember that grateful feeling when Coach finds out that I’m about to marry his daughter,” he mutters, smirking at me again. “That’s going to be a fun meeting.”

I laugh quietly. “Your stupid ass better tell him before someone else does.”

“I’m working on it.”

“What the fuck are you two whispering about over there?” Jordan asks from across the locker room, the first time he’s spoken all damn afternoon. He’s been in a mood since Sutton Peters showed up, demanding to talk to him.

“How you fit your big ass head in that helmet,” Nash retorts without missing a beat.

“Fuck you both,” Jordan mutters, flipping Nash off even as his lips twitch. “I don’t even want to know what the fuck the two of you have going on.”

“Secrets don’t make friends!” Diego calls.

“I don’t want to know what they’re talking about,” Joaquin mutters. “They’re probably composing love letters or some bullshit.”

Micah whips his head up, looking over at us, and our gazes lock. I open my mouth to say something to him—I’m not even sure what—but he doesn’t give me the chance. He just grunts and glances away.

Fucking hell.

“Yeah, to your mom,” Nash says to Joaquin, a taunting smile on his face. “When’s she coming to the next game so I can deliver it?”

“Man, fuck you.” Joaquin laughs despite himself, throwing a towel at Nash, who snags it out of midair and launches it back across the room. “She’s never coming back here again now that your big ass is on this team.”

“Yo. I’ve been telling you that I’ve got dibs on your mom, Joaquin,” Diego says. “You can’t just hide her away now.”

“Diego, shut the fuck up. You aren’t getting near my mama.” Joaquin turns to glare at Nash. “You either, you fucker.”

Nash just laughs, hauling himself up from the bench.

When I glance back over at Micah, he’s got his head down, ignoring everyone. Fuck. How long do I need to give him to work through this shit before I step in? Because I’m already over it.

“Jesus Christ,” I growl halfway through the third period, gritting my teeth as River is slammed into the boards hard enough to snap his stick. The puck sails away from him before being scooped up by Oliveira, the Dutchmen’s right winger.

“Graves, you’re up!” Coach shouts, his gaze not even deviating from River as Jordan skates past him, checking on him. River mutters something to him and then snags his broken stick, skating back toward the bench. He looks spent.

“You good?” I ask.

“Yeah. That fucking prick, Oliveria, is out for blood tonight,” he says, hopping over the boards. “Be careful.”

I jerk my chin in a nod, hauling ass out of the box. The Dutchmen have been all over us all night. We’re running on fumes, and we’ve still got three minutes left. But if we can net another goal, they won’t be able to catch up.

I charge across the ice, determined to keep them from tying up the game. Oliveira takes a wild shot, but it bounces off the post, sailing right toward me.

I pull up short, and line up a shot, sending it careening back down the ice.

“Archer!” Jordan shouts from behind me, letting me know I’m about to take a hit.

His call comes a second too late.

Oliveira plows into me, shoving me hard enough to send me sprawling across the ice. My knee twists, sending a sharp pain down my leg. My helmet gets knocked loose, bouncing across the ice.

“Fuck!” I growl as Oliveira lands on top of me in a heap.

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