Page 19 of Crossing Lines

He huffed a laugh. “No, it ended a good six months before I moved.” He stood and plucked his crumpled bag off the table. “I suppose I should be going.”

My gaze chased him, and I rose from the table. “Yeah, guess so.” I glanced outside into the sunny afternoon. I had my final class of the day to go to, but if he offered to go for a drink, I’d take it.

“See you at practice later.” He patted my shoulder.

“Sure, see you later.” I watched him walk toward the door, then slung my backpack over my shoulder, a ragged ache filling my chest. I’d learned a lot about him today. And the more I learned, the more I liked him. He’d been in a long-term relationship, which, in my book, said he was a relationship guy. Just the sort of man I wanted in my life.

The next weekend,we were in Colorado Springs, taking on Colorado College’s Tigers. We’d only been in the game less than ten minutes and Hopkins had already scored. I skated down the ice, juggling the puck on my stick while Dickerson followed close beside me.

“Drop it, Boehm. Drop the fucker.” He smacked me with his shoulder.

“That all you got?” With a chuckle, I corrected and eyed Richards, our other winger, then shot the puck at him.

Richards lunged for it and collided hard with Dickerson, knocking both of them to the ice and leaving a yard sale of helmets and sticks. The puck flew into the board and was picked off by the Tigers’ right D-man.

Carlson swung around and flew toward him, then checked him against the board and stole the puck.

“Here, I’m open.” I slapped my stick to the ice.

Carlson tossed the puck my way.

Slipping in front of me, Dickerson snatched it and cackled. “You’re such a hoser, Boehm.” He worked it down the ice toward Ace. “Or are you a hose-sucker?”

“Fucker.” I powered toward him. So much for my comebacks. “Come on,Dick-erson, you can do better than homophobic chirps.”

He cut in front of me.

Lifting my stick, it caught his leg and yanked him down. Fuck, now I’d done it.

He fell forward and slid down the ice.

A ref blew a whistle and skated in to pick up the puck for a faceoff.

“Goddammit.” That was a rookie mistake. My gaze caught on Carlson’s, and he shook his head.

“Don’t worry, I got this.” Hopkins skated by me and up-nodded with a wide smirk.

I threw a glance toward the bench. Was Coach Finley going to pull me in?

Coach signaled to me.

“Fuck.” Hanging my head, I skated toward the gate in the boards, then took my seat on the bench while Bransky hopped out onto the ice.

“Watch your stick, Boehm.” Coach Finley patted my shoulder.

“Yeah, I know.” It was so fucking basic. I snuck a peek at Coach Gibson, as usual looking slick in his gray suit.

With lifted brows, his gaze met mine and he crossed his arms over his chest.

I’d let him down. I had to do better. I scowled and shook my head. I was more concerned about what he thought of my playing than my own coach. This was all sorts of fucked up. I had to get my head on straight.

After the game,where we’d barely squeaked out a win in an overtime shoot-out, we were bused to an Italian restaurant for a team dinner to fill up on pasta.

I strolled next to Archer and behind Coach Gibson, watching the sway of his fine ass in his slacks under his suit coat. The cold weather didn’t seem to bother him. I was all bundled up in sweats with the rest of the team, but he was only wearing his suit jacket.

Archer opened the door and waved me inside. “You look worried.”

“I do?” I gnawed the side of my lower lip. He was right. I’d wanted to be sure to snag a seat close to his coach because I couldn’t help myself.

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