Page 28 of Lose You Twice

“I said I’m good,” he repeats.

“And I said team stretch.” I keep my voice even. “Last I checked, you’re part of the team.”

He sneers. “Could’ve fooled me.”

If you acted like it, maybe you’d feel like it.

I don’t say that out loud, though. Leadership, about ninety percent of the time, is not saying the first thing that comes to mind or the thing that would make me feel good in the moment. Sadly, I’ve had to learn to keep a heavy filter on my mouth, but I can’t say the same for my face sometimes.

“Then stop making it hard to remember,” I say.

A tiny choking sound comes from behind me, and I don’t have to look to know it came from Weston.

Coleson’s eyes narrow.

For a second, I think he’ll fight me more. Part of me wants him to. But instead, he looks away.

“Fine.”

He skates back toward the group. Definitely not with a shining attitude, but he does it anyway.

I’ll take the win.

Might turn out to be more of a pain in the ass later. Still counts, though.

By the time Coach releases us, the guys flood into the tunnel like they’ve been granted early parole. The hallway to the locker room smells like rubber mats, sweat, and whatever industrial cleaner the rink staff uses to pretend hockey players are civilized and smell halfway decent after sweating our asses off.

Weston walks backward in front of me, still refusing to let go of our earlier conversation.

“I want it on record that I survived because of my inner strength.”

“You survived because Asher stopped everything you shot near him.”

Asher snorts behind us. “Saying those were near me is really generous.”

“See?” Weston gestures at him. “No one on this team is supportive.”

“You owe me an apology,” Asher says.

“For what?”

“For making me watch you suck that bad.”

Weston presses a hand to his heart. “No one even loves me anymore.”

The locker room absorbs us in a burst of noise. Gear hits stalls. Shower sandals slap tile. Someone starts complaining about a professor assigning reading during the first week like academics are a personal attack.

The freshman who made a mess of the ice sits across from me, still looking a few shades paler than normal.

I grab a water bottle from my stall and toss it to him. “Drink.”

“I’m fine.”

“Trust me, I’ve been in your position. You’re not super fine right now, and if you don’t hydrate properly, you will regret it big time in a few hours.”

He doesn’t argue with that, taking the water and muttering a thank you.

I sit and start unlacing my skates, but my brain is already lining out everything else I need to do or remember for later.