Page 82 of On His Team

“It was practice.”

“Was it awful?”

“No.”

I scoff. “That was convincing.”

“It was practice.”

“You guys are so weird when you’re losing.”

He says, “We’re weird when we’re winning too.”

Cole walks past me carrying two pairs of skates.

He points toward the phone. “Boyfriend?”

I give him a look so violent he grins and keeps walking.

Rowan says, “What?”

“Cole is being irritating.”

“That narrows it down.”

I laugh. Then I hear Rowan laugh too, and for some reason that makes me laugh harder.

“What?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re laughing.”

“I know.”

“At what?”

“You.”

I’m still smiling when the noise on his end changes. The locker room gets quieter. Then there’s the scrape of a door opening and the hollow sound of the hallway.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Walking.”

“Where?”

He doesn’t answer. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen like that’s somehow going to tell me.

“Rowan?”

Nothing.

Then the equipment-room door opens.

I look up.

He’s standing there with his phone still against his ear, hair damp from practice, hoodie unzipped over a T-shirt, and that stupid calm expression on his face like he did not just walk across the rink to continue a conversation we were already having perfectly well over the phone.