I bet he didn’t think it would take a good dick sucking and an apology to get there.
“Your gap on the weak side,” I say, skating up behind him. “You’re leaving it open a fraction too long.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’m compensating for Bryce’s positioning and Bryce keeps cheating left.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Which you’d see if you were watching the full picture instead of just me.”
I hold his gaze.
Motherfucker.
“I’m watching the full picture. Not just you. Barely you, if anything,” I say. He turns back to the drill.
“Sure you are,” he says, smugly. “I’m cute. Remember?” He skates away with a smile.
I knew that was going to bite me in the ass and I swore Iwouldn’t punch him again. Even if he doesn’t stop pissing me off.
But I smile back anyway.
The texts start being about other things after that.
Not immediately. But gradually, over the course of two weeks, they shift. It starts with hockey — positioning questions, opponent analysis, the kind of tactical back and forth that makes sense given what we’re doing at six AM — and then it becomes something else without either of us deciding that’s what’s happening.
Rhys:
Blake made this risotto thing and it’s incredible do you cook?
I stare at that one for a full minute.
Jamie:
No
Rhys:
no like actually no or no like you’ve never tried?
Jamie:
Actually no
Rhys:
that’s so sad
Jamie:
I don’t have time to cook
Rhys:
everyone has time to cook nash you just have to want to
Jamie:
I don’t want to
