Page 20 of Two Guys One Puck
“Yeah, why? What’s going on?” She clicks her phone off and slides it into her pocket.
“I got an invitation to the Dragon’s developmental camp, and I need to go.”
“Seriously?” Dad calls from the den while Zeph and Emily stare at me.
I nod, not making eye contact with any of them. “Yep. I’ll be home some of the nights since they can only pay for the hotel for three—NCAA rules and whatnot.”
“You’re not staying the rest of the nights?” Emily asks.
I shake my head. “Hotels at Manhattan prices? Are you crazy?”
She nods. “You’re right. In the middle of tourist season, that’s impossible.”
No one has an extra grand lying around. Not with how expensive Dad’s medicine has gotten and Zeph’s club fees. Even with the extra work Uncle Garrett can take on with Otto and me working for the summer, it never seems to be enough. Emily helping with the office stuff frees him up some, but with the economy, jobs are fewer, and keeping good labor with everything going on is rough. It’s just a mess.
“It’s fine. I’ll deal.” We live far enough out of the city to make it possible but still a major headache. No one has time for a two-hour commute one way, but I can’t miss camp.
The long days make the two weeks fly by, and I’m ready for a break. Hockey will make a nice change of pace. This week might actually be easy.
That is until I walk in on Monday morning and see Ktytor sitting front and center.
Fuck.
SEVEN
KTYTOR
My summer gets a whole lot more interesting when Seaborn walks into the ballroom of the NHL development camp. What are the fucking odds? I’ve spent the last three months trying to escape thoughts of him.
The way he touched me burned into my brain. And not a goddamn whisper from him. He still has me on Snap, and I see him watch my stories sometimes, but not a word. It shouldn’t bother me like it does. I’m not used to being focused on anything other than hockey.
I can’t let him distract me from my goal.
His gaze flicks over me as he walks by. He walks to the other side of the locker room to put his bag down.
Whatever.
His presence doesn’t matter. I don’t plan on playing college hockey longer than I have to. A degree is useless if I get drafted, and that’s the only way I’m getting my family out of Ukraine. The war gets more dangerous every day, so I do not have time to waste. This is a rare opportunity. The NHL only has about seven hundred and fifty players. I need to be one of those, and if showing I’m better than Seaborn gets me drafted, so be it.
Neither of us has time to take our eyes off the prize. Even a casual fuck could become too distracting. I’ve made a point not to allow myself such things.
So really, there is no reason to interact with him. It’s better that he’s pretending like he doesn’t know me.
They hand out gear and then tell us to grab some breakfast.
“When you get your plates, find your table color that matches your tag. That will be your small group for the week,” Walker Fig, the Dragons’ head coach, says.
When I get to the green table, I find Seaborn already sitting there. “Mother Mary. I cannot escape you.” I drop my gear bag and set my plate on the table.
“Hell.” Seaborn glances up. The red line on his nose from where I hit him is still visible, and that makes me a little hard. “What are the odds?”
The rest of the guys in various stages of sitting down glance between us.
“They had to have done it on purpose,” a red-haired guy says. Lennox—I think he plays for the Guardians.
“Why would you think that?” Seaborn says, letting his apprehension show.
“To see if we can play nice, of course,” I say, locking eyes with Lennox.
