Page 37 of Best Kept Secret
“I know, right!” I laugh. “But, in my defense, it turned out that I had an inner ear infection I didn’t even know about, and so my balance was completely off.”
Maverick smiles, and wow. I’m not normally into blond guys, but he’s really cute. I feel my cheeks heat even more than they already were.
“I suppose you could walk me back up to my apartment.” I shrug, biting back a smile. “Better to be safe than sorry, right?”
CHAPTER 16
LOGAN
Me: Hey Red.
Red: What…
Me: How’s your night going?
Red: Fine.
Me: Cool. Hey, so quick question. Why was there a dude standing outside my apartment door holding flowers?
As Coach Draper goes over some last-minute strategy tactics, I’m not even listening. My knee bounces as I stare down at my phone, clutching the device so tight I’m surprised the screen hasn’t cracked with the pressure the longer I’m forced to sit here and stare at that godforsaken read receipt. Millie Shaw is going to be the death of me, I swear to fuck.
“You good, man?”
I look up from my phone to see Robbie right there, his brow furrowed as he looks down at me while securingthe straps on his shoulder pads. His gaze flits from my phone to me and back again as I turn the device over so it’s face down on my thigh.
“Yeah,” I mutter, avoiding his curious eyes as I grab my stick tape.
“You look nervous,” Robbie continues. “And pissed.”
Oh, if only you knew… I think to myself. Instead, I shrug a shoulder. “I’m just trying to keep focused on the game.”
“Good!” Rusty, our team captain, overhears me, and he glowers at me from across the locker room where he’s taping his socks. “Because you fuckin’ sucked last night, Cullen.”
I balk, shaking my head, because I must have heard him incorrectly. I point a finger at myself. “Me?”
“Yeah, you,” Rusty spits. “That double clutch you pulled in the third cost us the game.”
I close my eyes on a heavy exhale because this fucking guy. Did I make a mistake last night? Yes. But I’ve already been chewed out by Coach, social media, and my fucking father. I don’t need Rusty bringing it up.Again.
“Says the guy who missed three wide open fuckin’ nets!” Dallas roars with laughter from his cubby, turning on his skates and pointing a finger a Rusty. “You can sit there and act high and mighty all you fucking like,Cap. But if anyone’s to blame for last night’s loss, it’s fucking you.”
Rusty’s face gets redder, and I can tell he’s on the verge of a meltdown. But thankfully, before things can escalate any further, Coach reins it in.
“That’s enough, the lot of you knuckleheads,” Coach Draper yells between chomps of his gum. “One more mention of last night’s disaster and you’re all riding the bench.” He’s bluffing, of course, but his empty threat does the trick, everyone shutting their mouths.
I glance across at Dallas, tipping my chin at him in silent thanks and, in return, he shoots me a wink. And as Coach goes back to tonight’s plays, I continue taping my stick blade, which is when my phone shudders on my thigh. I grab the device andeagerly check it, heaving a sigh of relief when I see Red’s name on the screen. But then I open the message, regretting it the second I do, that relief turning into white, hot rage.
Red: Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m on a date.
Less than five minutes into the third period and I’m being escorted to the box for the seventh time so far tonight. My second two-minute stint for roughing. Frankly, I don’t even know what just happened. But I take a seat to the tune of the home team’s fans booing me, some asshole kid slapping the glass and grabbing my attention only to flip me off. I glance up at the replay on the Jumbotron and accept my fate with a slight grimace because even I can see my check against the Montreal D-man was uncalled for.
My head is not in this game at all, and it’s all Millie’s fault.
A fucking date? With some flower-wielding douchebag wearing a turtleneck? This has got to be some sort of fucked up joke. She knows I can see who comes and goes on the cameras and she’s paid some asshole to make it look like he’s taken her out because there is no way she would voluntarily go on a date with fucking Parker 2.0. It has to be a joke. It fucking better be a fucking joke.
Rusty skates past the box and punches the glass, pulling me from my thoughts. He flashes me a warning glower as he passes, and I roll my eyes because Rusty Morris is getting on my last fucking nerve tonight. We’re leading four-two, three of the goals scored by me; what more does the guy fucking want?
I chomp down hard on my mouthguard, my knee bouncing as I watch the play out on the ice, and sure, my mind should be on the game, but it’s not.
