Page 21 of Burner Account

A student grinned at me from the back row. “Rules are rules, Mr. Cole!”

I rolled my eyes. Yeah, they were. And in my classroom, if a text went off, the rule was,“Now you get to share it with the whole class.”I made exceptions for a message from a parent or something, and if a student really didn’t want to share the text, they had the option of doing a short worksheet of extra homework instead. Either way, the rule was incredibly effective at encouraging my students to silence their phones during class.

And as with all the other rules, I wasn’t a hypocrite, so I sighed and picked up my phone. I had a split second of horror, thinking Tanner might’ve sent me something flirty or even racy, but it was just another text from Darren, which I read aloud: “If your sign has glitter on it, we’re taking your car.”

I chuckled, and I got some amused and puzzled looks from my students. Shrugging as I silenced my phone, I said, “I’m going to a hockey game with Mr. Baldwin tonight, and I’m bringing a sign.”

“What’s it gonna say?” Madison asked.

“If you get a puck, can I have it?” Noah called out.

“I don’t know what it’s going to say,” I said. “And if I do get a puck…” I hesitated. Sometimes I did give them to my students, much like I did with the signed photos I collected after games. But if I got one tonight, it wasn’t going anywhere. I thought fast, then grinned. “Tell you what—if a Yellow Jacket tosses me a puck tonight, there won’t be a quiz on Friday.”

That prompted cheers, and several kids called out ideas for my sign in hopes that my odds of getting a puck would go up.

I just laughed. After all, I was pretty sure it didn’t matter what I put on my sign tonight.

Because a Yellow Jacket would, in fact, toss me a puck.

Chapter 8

Tanner

The stitcheson my upper lip were itchy and annoying, and the sweat I’d worked up during this morning’s practice didn’t helpat all. I could usually live with it, but this time, it was threatening to drive me insane.

In all the times I’d been sewn up thanks to a hockey mishap, the stitches had never bugged me like this. They’d never been a constant, nagging reminder ofgoddammit I could’ve kissed him.

I swore under my breath as I carefully dabbed the sweat off my lip, which was not an easy task with hockey gloves on. I justhadto take a puck to the mouth atthatgame, didn’t I? Just had to have this stupid cut trying to heal above my lip on a night when the desire to kiss someone was more overwhelming than it had ever been.

Because… fuck. It really had been overwhelming.

I shook myself and skated a lazy circle in the neutral zone just to keep myself moving. Coach was running us through some drills, and it wasn’t my turn yet, so while I waited to go, I tried to stay loose. And focus. Especially focus. Since my focus was a mess today.

I could practice and play through almost anything, but today… Fuck me. I couldn’t get Isaiah out of my mind.

Good thing that puck hadn’t knocked out any teeth or something. Or broken my jaw. I’d been there, done that (the jaw, I mean—I still had all my teeth, minus a chip out of one), and it took for-fucking-ever to heal. I wasn’t sure Isaiah would wait that long. Even if he would, I wasn’t so sure Icould. And he might not find a hockey smile attractive.

Would the League let me wear a face cage for a while?

“Yes, my lip is healed and my teeth and jaw are fine, but can I protect my face until I know for sure if this guy is actually into me?”

The thought made me chuckle. Yeah, no, they wouldn’t let me do that. No face cage. No fishbowl. Not unless I had a facial injury that warranted extra protection. Ugh. Fine. I’d just have to do my best to avoid flying pucks. And sticks. And fists.

Well, my mom had been asking me to stop fighting so much, so this was as good a time as any to learn to keep my gloves on.

But if I get someone in a headlock, then he can’t hit me in the face, and—

The whistle blew, jerking my attention back to the drill. I had a second to panic, thinking I’d missed my cue, but no, it was the first line’s turn. Which meant my line was next.

Fuck. Gotta focus.

Fortunately, I had a lifetime of experience yanking my concentration off literally anything and onto hockey. Stress over grades? That nasty breakup when I was a sophomore? Some unsettling medical news from home? I’d hit the mental pause button, play hockey, and then go right back to being out of sorts.

Today, just like always, I shifted into hockey mode, completed the drill, took my place in the neutral zone again, and—

Well, I wasn’t out of sorts. My distraction today was a good one. An amazing one. Meeting “Ian” had been so much better than I’d imagined it would be. While I’d been spinning myself up over all the worst-case scenarios, wondering in what ways I’d regret meeting this man and dropping that veil of mystery between us, he’d been all gorgeous and incredible andholy shit, he was real.

Real. And hot. And just as sweet and interesting as he’d been online. And we were going to meet again, and one of these days, I wouldn’t have these stupid stitches to get in the way of—

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