Except this morning, somebody’s already on my ice.
One guy, no jersey, just a practice shirt soaked down the back, running the same move at the net over and over like it owes him money. I don’t have to check who it is. I already know how he moves, which is annoying, because how do I know the moves of a guy who’s literally been at this school for two damn seconds?
I turn to leave.
“Dixon.”
Dammit, it’s too late.
He skates over to the boards. He isn’t even out of breath, which is rude.
“You stalking me?” he says.
I try not to look at him directly because, damn, he’s the kind of sexy that girls on this campus would probably do all kinds of dirty tricks to bag.
I wonder if he knows it?
What am I saying? He definitely knows it.
“I do a facility walk-through on Wednesdays,” I tell him.
“At six in the morning?”
“Some of us have jobs.”
“I’ve got a job, too.” He grins. “Mine’s more fun than yours.”
Smart ass.
“Your job is currently to attend a conduct review and two anger management sessions a week.”
“Like I said. Fun.” He props his forearms on the boards. “You’re not on the early ice list, Dixon.”
I raise an eyebrow at that. “Neither are you.”
“I’m not on a lot of lists.”
“You ran that same move at the net a dozen times just now. You missed two.”
“You were counting?”
“I count everything.”
“Huh. Me too.” He looks way too happy about it, as if he’s enjoying that we have weird shit in common. “Drives people nuts.”
“I can see why.”
“Bet it doesn’t drive you nuts, though.”
It doesn’t, but I don’t tell him that.
I should keep walking, but I don’t. I’m a glutton for punishment.
“How long have you been out here?” I ask him.
“Since five.”
“Why?”
