Page 9 of Pucked Mountain Man
“Don’t.”
“I can?—”
“Don’t,” I repeat, in a soft but firm tone. My hand brushes his sleeve.
He gives in, but I don’t miss the hard set of his jaw.
Inside, I stack the wood, check the water, lanterns, blankets. The wind elbows the siding. Lights flicker, think better of it.
“Okay,” I say. “Now the hard part.”
He lifts a brow. “What’s that?”
“Keeping a recovering hockey player from doing something that will flare up his injury. Lucky for us—” I tip my head down the hall “—we have plenty of entertainment.”
The game room is a neon-washed time capsule from the 1980s. There’s a pool table, pinball, and most importantly, an air hockey table. I hand Grady a striker.
He eyes it suspiciously.
I snort. “What? Are you scared you might lose?”
He scoffs. “I could beat you with my eyes closed.”
“You’re on. Stakes?”
“Name them.”
I cock my head to the side and eye him closely. “How about the loser makes dinner.”
“And the winner?”
“Winner picks tonight’s movie.”
He lets out a low whistle. “High stakes. You’re on.”
We flip on the game and it hums to life. The puck sits on the table between us.
From his position on the other side, Grady purses his lips. He looks lighter, younger somehow, with his eyes focused on the plastic disc.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Drop the puck.”
I do. He blocks, counters, scores.
His lips curve up. “One-nothing.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I say.
I grew up battling Thatcher on a thrift-store table. Losing is not in my DNA.
We trade goals like insults. He grins when I sneak one under his striker.
“One-one.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I am the picture of humility,” I say batting my eyes sweetly.
