Page 7 of Devil on Skates
“Fuck, Gallagher!” Ian blurts out as I peel off my jersey. “What the hell happened to your back?”
I glance in the mirror and see the long red scratches running down from my shoulders and over my back. Yeah, they’re still there, which is impressive. My mystery girl has vicious nails.
“Looks like someone had fun,” Ronan says, and laughs. “Wildcat, huh?”
I can’t help smirking. “Something like that.”
The rest of the team howls and whistles.
Ronan snorts. “And here I thought you were just having a bad hangover. No wonder your head’s not in the game.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, but it comes out flat.
“Oh yeah? Then why did Coach yell your name five times during the drills?”
And he would’ve yelled even more, but he was glued to his phone for some reason.
“Lucky break,” Ian says. “Another ten minutes and he would’ve had you doing suicides ‘til sunset.”
The guys drift off into weekend plans and lunch spots, but I tune them out. I’m on autopilot now, changing clothes, packing gear, and pretending everything’s normal. But my thoughts keep spinning back to her.
Why? I’ve had hookups before. Some good, and some forgettable. But none of them stuck with me like this. None of them haunted me.
Is it just because she kind of vanished later? Or the way shegotit—my need to escape—without me having to explain it?
Or maybe it’s just the fact that she left without saying goodbye.
“Gallagher, you good?” Ronan waves a hand in front of my face.
“Yeah.” I zip up my bag. “What were you saying?”
“Lunch. You in?”
I check the time. “Nah. I have a class I need to get to.”
“All work, no play,” he teases.
“Says the guy who was at the same party.”
He grins. “Yeah, but I can handle my distractions. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
He’s not wrong. Between the late night and thinking about Irina way more than I should be, I feel totally off-balance. If my dad could see me now, he’d lose his mind.
He’s always preaching the same thing.
A Gallagher doesn’t waste potential. Excellence isn’t optional.
I haul my gear bag onto my shoulder and head outside, already planning out the rest of my day. There’s no room for distractions.
Coach is standing outside the building, glancing at his watch, which isn’t weird. But walking toward him isher.
I freeze.
It’s my mystery girl. But this time she has a ponytail, and she’s wearing a simple black dress, with none of last night’s glitter.
It’s definitely her. There’s no doubt about it.
When she reaches him, she smiles. Casual. Familiar.
