Page 56 of Pucking Forbidden

He shakes his head. “That’s not an answer.”

I shoot him a narrowed-eyed glare. “It is when you don’t want to explain it.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Fair. But now I’m even more curious.”

I look away again. “Julian doesn’t feel that way about me, anyway.”

I expect him to make a joke out of it, but to my surprise, he doesn’t. Theo lets out a low whistle, slowly shaking his head. He shifts his weight, dropping the blade of his hockey stick onto a puck resting at his feet. With effortless, rhythmic precision, he begins to click-clack the black rubber back and forth, his eyes tracking the puck for a few beats before he snaps his gaze back up to me.

“You sure about that?” he asks, arching a brow.

“What?”

He does a quick, flashy trick with the puck, flipping it onto the toe of his stick and letting it drop back to the rubber floor with a sharp clack. He catches my eyes and holds them, his expression deadpan. “That Wilder doesn’t like you. I bet he does.”

My eyes go wide and my stomach flutters. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he nods, his tone confident. He leans his forearm on top of his stick, looking up at me through the messy fringe of blonde hair falling across his forehead. “How could he not?”

My chest hurts because my heart is beating so hard.

“You’ve known me for, what, five minutes?” I scoff, trying to brush it off.

“Maybe not,” he shrugs. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

I don’t respond to that. I really don’t know what to say, so I push off and skate at a slow, almost crawling pace as his words run through my mind.

“Look, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says, catching up to me. “That wasn’t my intention. I get it, you know.”

I frown at him. “Get what?”

He sighs. “Feeling like it’s off-limits.”

Something about the way he says it makes me look at him a little more closely.

“I understand it more than most, actually,” he adds under his breath.

I tilt my head. “What does that mean?”

He hesitates, the easy, confident smirk vanishing from his face. The rhythmic click-clack of his hockey stick goes silent as he rests the blade flat against the floor, his knuckles turning white around the grip. His jaw tightens so hard a small muscle leaps in his cheek, and his gaze drops to the rubber matting between his skates.

“There’s this guy I’ve liked since highschool…” he starts, then immediately stops.

The words hang between us, and his entire posture stiffens, his shoulders squaring under his track jacket as if he’s bracing for a blow.

Realizing the weight of what he’s saying, I gasp, “Oh!”

He exhales, dragging a hand back through his hair. “Forget I said that.”

“Hey,” I murmur, laying my hand on his arm. “You don’t have to…”

“Just…don’t tell anyone, okay?” he cuts in with a quiet desperation. “I’m not…I haven’t…”

“I won’t,” I assure him.

His eyes flick back to mine. He’s clearly nervous, but there’s a small amount of relief in his gaze.

“It’s your call,” I add. “When you tell people. If you tell people. I can tell you with total certainty that my grandpa won’t care, and neither will the team. They’re some of the best people I’ve ever met, and when you’re ready, you can trust them as you trusted me.”