“Yes.” I shrug. The movement loosens my shoulders that have been tight since I left her last night. The thirty-minute gap means nothing. The coach will yell. I don’t care. “Eat.”
She takes the bag and unfolds the top. Her expression shifts, surprise bleeding into something I can’t name.
“You went off campus for this.” I did. To the coffee shop with shit coffee but good pastries. She’s gone there almost every day.
“Eat,” I order. She rolls her eyes at me but unwraps the sandwich as we move through the common area. The couches are occupied by girls pretending not to stare. I feel their attention like pressure on my temple. I hate this shit.
I open the main doors for her as she takes a giant ass bite; the crunch of the toasted English muffin is loud, but it’s followed by a moan that goes straight to my dick.
My hand finds her waist and pulls her in. Her eyes widen; she’s close enough I can count the flecks of gold in them. I kiss her because I can’t stop myself.
Someone gasps behind us. A book hits the floor. I don’t flinch, don’t perform, don’t care about the eyes or the whispers that will spread through the school before we reach the rink. Her mouth is warm. Her hand comes up to my chest, fingers curling in my jacket.
When I pull back, her lips are slightly parted. Her eyes look dazed, and her cheeks are flushed. I want to kiss her again.
“Let’s go,” I say, my voice rough.
“You’re really playing this up,” Madeline whispers, staying tucked into my side. I’m not playing at shit. That’s not a conversation for today, though. She’s not ready for it.
I match my pace to hers while she finishes the sandwich, and we walk across campus toward the rink.
“What happens when the coach doesn’t show up for practice?”
“You play dumb.”
“I can try.” She elbows my side. “Got any tips?” I let out a chuckle.
We reach the rink too soon. Madeline finishes the last bite of her sandwich, crumpling the paper bag in her fist. I take it and toss it into one of the trash cans. She looks up at me, and I want to keep walking. Past the rink, past the school, past everything that isn’t this until it’s just her and me.
But some of the Ice Crew girls come in through the side entrance, their voices loud across the wet morning grass. Lana’s laugh stands out, sharp and fucking annoying. She goes quiet when she sees us. I ignore them all, stopping at the door since we have to split up into our locker rooms to get changed.
I reach out, cup the back of Madeline’s neck, and pull her in. This kiss is shorter, but I make it count. I feel her pulse against my thumb. I love how her hand always grabs ahold of me when I kiss her, needing something to grip. When I pull back, her eyes are unfocused. Good. I have an effect on her.
“See you after,” I say.
She nods, still catching her breath, which I take as a fucking victory. It’s hard to catch my girl off guard and manage to daze her. I watch her walk toward the girls’ locker room until she’s inside. Then I turn and head to my own to change.
The cold hits me first, then the smell. Rubber and sweat, the kind of stink you only get in a rink after too many practices. The rest of my team is already on the ice, warming up in smallgroups. Coach stands along the boards with his clipboard, and his head snaps up when he spots me.
“Locke. You’re late.”
I don’t bother to respond or apologize. Why? It would be a lie, and he can toss me off the team if he likes. I head for the bench, tightening my gear the way I like it. The routine settles me: the familiar weight of the gear, the bite of the straps against my skin. Finally, I throw on my practice jersey and I’m ready to go. When I hit the ice, the blades catch and I’m off. I deepen my stride, getting low and feeling the burn in my thighs to get them going.
I do two laps to warm up and scan the rink. At the other end, the Ice Crew is off the ice, going over their routines or whatever they do before getting on the ice.
Grant skates up next to me. “How were you gone before I woke up and late for practice?” he asks. I grunt a response, my attention sliding over to Mick at the far end, stickhandling through cones. Joey’s on the boards stretching. And Caleb—Caleb’s laughing with someone, his helmet off, gesturing with his stick like he’s telling a story.
“Oh shit, I know that look.” Grant lets out a sigh.
I skate toward Caleb. No rush. No warning. I come in from his blind side, shoulder down, and slam him into the boards hard enough to rattle his teeth. His stick drops to the ice. The laugh disappears from his face.
“What the hell, Locke?” He shoves at me, but I’ve got leverage, my forearm across his chest, pinning him in place.
“You’ve got a big fucking mouth,” I say. Low. Just for him.
“Are you serious right now? We’re in the middle of?—”
“The betting pool.” I lean in closer, close enough to smell his shampoo. “The rumors about the new girls. Who can fuck them first? You started that shit.”
