Page 7 of The Fake Date Agreement

That’s why it’s so hard to stay angry at him.

We don’t just play together, we’ve formed a brotherhood. The only points we score against each other are the ones that don’t hurt or aren’t meant to. At least, not for long.

“Something isn’t right.” I frown.

Javier frowns back. “What do you think forcing it will do? It’s like straining to take a dump. All you’ll end up with is a torn?—”

“Thatis a subject you have taken way, way too far,” Reid interrupts, wincing. “I don’t need to hear about any of Boucher’s parts being torn. Least of all his ass.”

I consider Javier as my mind returns to the goal I shouldn’t have missed.

Hedidn’t miss any shots.

Because for every game, he wears his special boxers. Maybe he’s onto something.

“Maybe I should get a pair,” I mutter.

“Is the ice freezing your brain?” Reid calls, pulling the door open as he twists to face me.

I scowl at him. “It is not?—”

Aaah!

We all stare down the long, black hallway, dimly lit by security lights. The mournful, haunting echo of a distant scream sends shivers down my spine, and my fingers instinctively tighten around my stick. Don’t know what the fuck that was, but I’m not going anywhere near it without this stick in my hand.

“You heard that, right?” I ask, still staring.

“Yup.” Reid hovers at the door, not taking a step forward or back. “So…”

“I say we ignore our resident Casper and see if we can still make it to the party,” Javier suggests.

The rest of the team is at the big Friday night frat party. Usually, the arena is locked up tight after game day, but I convinced Coach to let us have a couple of hours of practice after everyone had gone home. He told us to leave through a fire exit before midnight. At midnight, securitywouldthrow us out.

Coach knows me too fucking well.

We won tonight. Barely. But we won. Not that anyone would have known it with the way I growled at everyone tomoveon my way to the locker room for the post-game celebration. Everyone celebrated. Reid put a beer in my hand. I set it down and hit the showers.

I don’t miss that shot.

It’s the Captain Caleb Boucher Special, served up when we’re winning, so why not make things easy by opening a bigger lead on a team we’ve already beaten?

I put it away every time.

It’s the safe bet.

Except tonight.

Tonight means something is wrong. I’m off my game. And whateveritis, I need to fix it before the championship game, and I fumble the biggest bag in my entire hockey career.

Again.

“You’re thinking about that shot again, aren’t you?” Reid mutters, rolling his eyes.

“No,” I lie.

Reid raises an eyebrow.

I skate to the side of the rink and step off, resting my stick against the plexiglass to change out of my skates and into my sneakers. “But if Iwerethinking about it…”

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