Page 88 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Don’t call me that,” I whisper.

She raises her brows. “Don’t call you what? His secret girlfriend?”

Yes. “It sounds so…” Horrible. “Morally gray. And slightlypathetic.”

She snorts. “Please. You’re not pathetic. You’re thriving. Secret romance? Forbidden tension? Yes please!”

Poppy leans in closer. “Okay, be honest—you were totally hoping he would accidentally see you.”

I pause.

Nod.

“Fine. I was.”

Poppy beams like she just won a bet with herself. “I knew it.”

“You are so irritating,” I say, cheeks warming.

She shrugs, thrusting the pretzel and cheese in my direction. “I’m just proud of you.

Down on the ice, Luca is still clearly struggling to focus. He misses another pass. Fumbles his stick. Skates into his own teammate during a line change. The coach yells something unintelligible and Luca waves a hand likeyeah yeah, I know, but his eyes keep flicking toward the boards.

Toward me.

Poppy munches on pretzel. “You broke his brain.”

The feeling is mutual.

He lifts his face mask and his gaze scans the crowd. I don’t bother pretending I’m not staring as my eyes meet his eyes through the glass, pulse thrumming in my throat like a war drum.

There it is.

That look.

I see you.

My bestie lets out a low whistle. “Honestly? If he looks at you like that any harder, he’s gonna melt through the ice.”

I press my thighs together and pretend to care about the scoreboard.

Luca’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smirk—for a second—before he yanks his helmet down a little lower and turns his attention back toward the ice.

There’s a whistle from the ref, and the players begin coasting toward their respective benches for a time-out. I sit back in my seat, just about to make a sarcastic comment about how badly the Baddies need to get their crap together?—

When my brother turns on his skates and heads straight for the boards.

Straight for me.

“Oh no,” I hiss.

Poppy’s eyes widen. “Abort. ABORT.”

“I can’t go anywhere! We’reseated!”

Gio skates over, casual as anything, tapping the end of hisstick against the glass like it’s no big deal. I sit up straighter, tucking the hoodie tighter around me and praying to every hockey god in existence that he doesn’t recognize it.

“NOVA!” he shouts through the glass, helmet askew, cheeks flushed. “Hey!”

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