Page 117 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Fuck, I do know better.
Maybe he’ll bark at me for screwing with his routine.
Maybe he’ll just glare.
Or maybe—worst case—he’ll bring up the one thing we’ve both been pretending isn’t hanging over our heads. Scottie.
We haven’t talked much since the day he caught us. He’s too busy. I need to recover so he can break my legs—both. It’s been trash talk, but nothing concrete. I’m too fucking tired to be chasing after him, but today isn’t exactly the day to do it. I fuck with the goalie’s mojo, and I might fuck the entire season.
He’s a diva that way.
“Hey, asshole,” Leif calls out, flicking a puck toward me like he’s throwing a punch wrapped in a smile.
“’sup, sunshine,” I chirp back, snagging it with my blade. Trying way too hard to sound normal.
He laughs—rougher than usual—and taps his stick against the ice with a short, impatient thud. “You ready to get your ass handed to you?”
I skate toward him, grinning. “Don’t jinx it, idiot. We’re on the same team. Someone hands me my ass, and we’re all fucked.”
He growls something, but I don’t pay attention.
We fall into a rhythm—passing, chirping, trying to make each other look stupid.
It’s easy. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Which is probably why I don’t see it coming.
He skates closer, real slow until there’s barely a blade’s length between us. His eyes, usually full of dry humor, are darker.
“You think we’re okay, don’t you?” he says low enough it doesn’t carry across the ice.
I blink. “Uh . . .”
He leans in, stick jabbing my shin guard just enough to make me shift back.
“I’m not fucking around, Tate,” Leif says, voice steady as a hammer about to fall. “You and Scottie, that wasn’t cool.”
There’s a beat where all I hear is my heartbeat slamming into my ears.
“I’m not screwing her over if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. Not defensive. Just . . . firm.
He scoffs—short and bitter. “Obviously you’re done with her—more like she’s done with you, and now we’ll try to go back to normal.”
I close my eyes briefly and take a deep, cleansing breath. I'm not sure what she told him, but I better tell him what’s happening now.
“We’re not done, Leif,” I clarify.
He rolls his eyes. “Please, she hasn’t been in town for months. You already moved on, and so did she.”
“Eight weeks, five days,” I correct him without thinking. “But who’s counting.”
His nostrils flair, but I don’t care. Instead of letting him talk, I continue.
“Sure, she’s been gone, but we text all day long and . . . we talk.”
Leif frowns as if he wasn’t expecting my response. Nope, he was ready to fuck my face with his stick for playing with his sister—even though he swears it’s over.
