Page 8 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“Murder generally isn’t good,” I say dryly.

“Except when Rip and Beth kick serious ass!” Smitty booms.

I roll my eyes.

“But Cupcake isn’t wrong,” he goes on. “And that’s Cupcake because Sawyer used to bring in pastries for everyone. Boy’s considerate and kind and so damned sweet—even with all those ladies he picks up and then lets down, oh so gently—you’d cut him open and find frosting instead of blood in his veins.”

“I can confirm that’s a lie,” I tell Rip, who just snorts. “About the ladies and the veins.”

“Dude, you’ve had more one-night stands than the entire team combined.”

I grit my teeth together. “Or maybe you just see what you want to see.”

“Maybe,” Ryan says quietly—because he’s almost always quiet. “But, women aside, if someone asks you to do something, you know you’ll break your back to get it done.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Lies!” Smitty calls.

Aiden shrugs. “I’m definitely not saying that Smitty is always right⁠—”

“I am!” Smitty chimes in.

“—but if there’s a job to do, man, you’re on it.”

I scowl as I pull down my socks, undo my shinguards. “Is that a crime?”

“No, it’s just you, Cupcake.”

“And we love you for it!” Smitty calls.

“Yeah, especially if you pair it with actual cupcakes,” Gray says.

Something twists in my stomach, but I ignore it and move onto my skates. “Well, then I guess I’d better get back to bringing them.”

“Fuck yeah!” Smitty shouts. “I request chocolate peanut butter.”

“You know,” I say, making a mental note of that as I tug at my laces, undoing the tight knots, even as I know that I have to end this conversation here and now. “I heard there’s a goose named Rip up in Cedar Hollow.”

It’s a complete and total lie—aside from a goose named Gerald who, apparently, likes bubblegum ice cream and to peck hockey players on the ass—I don’t know any of the names of the animal mafia torturing the small town near our rival’s, the Harrisburg Hawks, home base.

But it still has the desired effect.

Smitty pales and shudders. “Dude, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I ask innocently.

He glares, but the rest of the guys are off and running—talking about Gerald and another goose named Terrance (and his penchant for knives), and then, as it naturally does (at least in this locker room), the conversation turns to wombats and all their scariness.

At least according to Smitty.

My phone buzzes as I hitch a towel around my waist and head for the showers.

I snag it from the shelf, head starting to pound when I see it’s my mother calling.

Again.

I have five missed calls from her, and that’s after talking to her on the way to the rink—and yes, in that conversation, I reminded her I have practice.