Page 83 of Enticing the Enforcer
There’s no doubt what he means. Winning. What was it like to win?
“Incredible,” Reese says, “especially after coming up short last year.”
“Vindication makes it sweeter,” Noah says.
“So much fucking better,” I reply with a laugh.
Later, Gideon leans over a bar and asks, “You’re the one dating the pop princess, right?”
I pause, grip tightening on the dumbbells. “You know her?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t grow up with access to electronics. But we do now. Everyone knows Ingrid Flockton.”
Automatically, I picture telling Ingrid later that even guys who grew up off the grid know her name. She’d laugh and roll her eyes at me. But the smile slips almost as fast. Because the truth hits me square in the chest: she hasn’t returned a call, hasn’t answered a text, not since she hung up on me.
Why the hell does it hurt that much?
Thank fuck, Reese takes mercy on me and switches the subject. “You dating anyone?”
Something passes through the room at that question. Subtle. Silent. Unspoken.
Jeb shakes his head. “Nah. We’re focused on this. Women are a distraction.”
“Ah,” I laugh. “The puck bunnies are going to love you.”
Reese snorts in agreement, but the guys look uninterested. That kind of restraint is something I’ve never had to contend with. Four years. Four years of fucking my way across campus. Every girl in the stands or at a party, or at the bar. I gave all that up for Ingrid and have no regrets, but the way they lived with the arranged marriages and shit like the people in Serendee? Hell. Fucking. No.
As we go through the reps, I can’t stop wondering how much baggage they’re carrying from those years. From the documentary Twyler made us all watch, I remember the rules: no dating. Marriages were arranged by the cult leader–ifhe decided to grant one in the first place and not keep the women for himself.
I glance at them again. Jeb’s arms are over his head, loosely holding the pull up bar, watching while Gideon lays on his back, with his brother sliding heavier and heavier weights on the edge of the bar. They’re all quiet, but not closed off. It’s more like they’re communicating silently, through their eyes and actions.
Later, we lace up and move to the ice. The chill hits my face the second we step onto the rink, but it’s welcome. Cleaner. Sharper. Less claustrophobic than the weight room.
They already have sticks in hand, gliding along the boards, testing edges, snapping passes between themselves with an easy rhythm that makes me pause. They’re coordinated, tight, like a single unit despite having just met us.
I skate over to Reese, my shoulder brushing against his. “You see that,” I say, watching as they run through a passing drill. “There’s history in how they move together.”
Reese gives me a look. “Yeah, I can see that.”
I can’t stop watching them. The subtle way they shift, the way Cross shields Ward from a check, the way Holt anticipates both of them before they make a move. It’s the kind of connection that comes from more than just hockey drills. Whatever happens next year, it’s going to be interesting.
25
Ingrid
My phone won’t stop buzzing.
I should mute it, throw it across the room, let the battery bleed out until it’s just a dead weight. Instead, I keep it face down on the table, every vibration rattling through me like a reminder that I’m the coward here.
When I finally give in and look, it’s the same thing over and over.
Can we talk?
I need you to hear me out.
I’m sorry. Please call me.
I don’t care if you’re pissed, Angel, I just need to hear your voice.
