Page 19 of Perfectly Grumpy

“This is my favorite place to ride to on a nice day,” I tell him. “Especially after being stuck in the office for so long. Nothing beats the feeling of freedom on a bike. No one but you and the open road.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Okay, so maybe you’ve made me a convert. Because that was incredible.”

Tate doesn’t let go of me right away. His arms stay around me, solid and warm, and I don’t rush him because I’m savoring every second of this closeness we’re pretending is just for balance. When he finally slides from the bike, he pulls off his helmet with one fluid motion and drags a hand through his messy, dark hair. The salt breeze catches it just right, tousling it across his forehead, before he gives me one of those rare smiles. The kind that makes my heart stutter.

Yeah. He definitely enjoyed the ride.

I hop off the bike, tugging out my phone. “Now I need proof that you rode this bike with me.”

“For the team?”

“Nope,” I say. “For me.”

He steps in closer, his chest brushing my shoulder, his dizzying scent making it hard for me to concentrate. I hold perfectly still as his arm wraps casually around my shoulder, histhumb brushing against my collarbone in a way that sends electricity racing down my arm. When his smile widens, I suddenly forget how to breathe. Or speak. Or think coherent thoughts.

I snap the photo, but let’s be honest—I couldn’t forget this moment if I tried. That smile is already burned into my memory.

EIGHT

Tate

“Pass it!” Leo calls as we play a practice scrimmage preparing for the next playoff game. I fake left around Lucian, our captain, then right past Brax before firing a wrist shot that sails cleanly past our new goalie, Miles.

Miles shakes his head, obvious frustration lining his face. “It’s okay, Miles. You’ll catch the next one,” I say to him. He just joined our team after getting traded from San Antonio, and I can tell he’s got potential. He’s just not used to playing with us yet.

“I could’ve made that shot,” Leo says, catching up to me. “Why didn’t you pass?”

The truth? Leo’s kind of a puck hog, but saying that to his face will only start an argument I don’t need today.

“I had a clear path to the goal.”

“You weren’t even looking at me,” Leo argues.

“Guys,” Lucian warns with a look.

The tension from the upcoming playoffs is starting to wear us all thin. Since Leo and I rent rooms at Rose & Thorn, we get on each other’s nerves more than the others, bickering like two siblings. At least summer break is around the corner. I’ll finally head to my parents’ home in California and work on my secret project in peace.

That is, if they actually want me there.

They haven’t said not to come, but they haven’t exactly asked either. My mom’s always off on some new retreat with her friends, and my dad’s obsessed with renovating the deck again, like perfect wood planks will fix whatever's starting to splinter between them. I’ll just show up, like I always do, and pretend not to notice how much quieter it gets when I walk in.

“Your game’s off,” Brax says as I slide on my skate guards and head toward the locker room.

“I made the last shot,” I toss back over my shoulder.

“Yeah, but not because you were focused.” he says, falling into step beside me. “You’re our consistent guy—steady, unshakable. Lately, though? You’re skating like your brain’s on another planet.”

“Just the end-of-season pressure,” I say, keeping my tone casual as we head to our lockers.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Lauren keeps appearing in my mind at the worst times. Like during drills. Or while I’m trying to sleep. Or when I’m mid-sprint and suddenly remember the way her hair whipped behind her on that motorcycle ride, the smell of summer and her sweet tangerine shampoo branded into my mind.

Brax looks at me dubiously. “You sure this doesn’t have something to do with a certain PR manager?”

“You know Lauren’s rule,” I say, grabbing a towel. “No dating players. She’s said it at least twelve times. Usually after Rourke says something wildly inappropriate.”

Just then, Rourke strolls by, towel slung over one shoulder. “What can I say? She’s got high standards.”

Leo pipes up from the other side of the locker room. “Or maybe she’s into the strong, silent, infuriatingly logical type.” He nods at me. “You know, like our very own Sheriff.”

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