Page 64 of Play Dirty

He looked more relaxed now, more casual. Raising his arm, he called for two more beers.

“Even so, there’s one thing I like better than everything else,” Grayson declared. “Spreadsheet, or no Spreadsheet.”

I smirked knowingly, as a smile finally played across his face.

“Winning.”

~ 23 ~

GRAYSON

It wasn’t working, and that was the problem.

We’d fixed it — or at least, we thought we had. The last game proved that. The system was tighter now. Cleaner. Faster, overall.

But today?

Things were slipping again.

Passes were late. Lanes collapsed, before we hit them. Timing was just off enough to kill momentum, before it ever built.

And momentum, I’d learned, was everything.

“Again!” Mercer barked.

We reset, and ran it again. Same result. I caught the puck at the blue line, hesitated a half-second too long, and by the time I moved it, the lane was gone.

Total breakdown.

Whistle.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, under my breath.

We circled back again and again, but encountered the same problem. Every rep was late. Everything was just a fraction of a second off.

“You’re reading the collapse early again.”

I didn’t need to look to know it was Haven. Her voice carried across the ice, even when you didn’t want it to.

Especially when you didn’t want it to.

“You’re stepping up before you shift the puck,” she added. “Giving up too much time.”

I closed my fingers, tightening my grip on the stick.

“We know what the problem is,” I said flatly.

“Then fix it.”

That did it. I turned on her.

Fast.

“You ever actually been out there?” I snapped, jerking a thumb over my shoulder toward the ice.

Silence hit instantly. The guys stopped moving, as if a whistle had blown. Mercer didn’t say anything. Haven didn’t either.

I took a step toward her.