“Me too,” Cam adds.
Tate looks at me. “You coming?”
I should probably go back to the hotel. Stay out of trouble. Do exactly what Noah would tell me to do if he were here.
But Noah’s not here. We’re in Vancouver, and I just had two assists and zero penalty minutes, and I’m tired of being on my best behavior.
“Hell yeah. I’m in.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at a bar called The Sin Bin. It’s exactly what Carter promised…dim lighting, hockey memorabilia on the walls, and a bunch of locals who don’t give a shit that we just beat their team.
We grab a corner booth and a couple of high-tops. Someone orders pitchers of beer. The mood’s good. Winning does that.
I’m two beers in, finally feeling relaxed, when my phone buzzes.
I peer at the text from Noah.
Where are you?
I frown. How does he even know I’m not at the hotel? And why does he care?
I text back.
Out with the team. Why?
A second passes. And then, another text comes through.
Which bar?
I furrow my brow.
Sin Bin. Two blocks from the hotel. Again, why?
I roll my eyes at his reply.
Marshall wants me to check in. Make sure you’re staying out of trouble.
Of course. Marshall. Because God forbid I go to a bar with my teammates without a babysitter.
I’m fine. And you’re in California.
I’m actually here in Vancouver. I watched from the press box. I’ll be there in ten.
Despite the annoyance, I can’t ignore the shivers that dance over my skin at the thought of seeing Noah. I put my phone down and scrape both hands down the front of my face.
“Problem?” Carter asks.
“Noah’s on his way.”
“The PR guy? Why?”
“Bob Marshall sent him. Apparently I need supervision.”
“You’re having a beer with the team. Not starting fights.”
“Tell that to Marshall.”
Ten minutes later, Noah walks in. He’s still in his suit. This one is dark gray, perfectly tailored like the rest. And he sticks out like a dick on a cake in this place. When he spots our group, he walks over.
