Page 35 of Ruthless Edge

"Rory and Jace. Me and Sienna. Emma and⁠—"

"Her date."

"Yeah."

I sit with that for a second. Knox Carter has never had a problem knowing what he's feeling. I have never had a problem knowing what I’m feeling. I'm not a complicated person emotionally. I like things or I don't. I'm happy or I'm not. I'm into someone or I've already moved on to the next thing. It's been my factory setting since birth and it has generally served me well.

I have never in my life felt like this. Like something has taken up residence in my chest cavity without permission and is actively making decisions on my behalf. It's an ugly, restless, completely irrational feeling, and I've been holding it together since the second period and I am running out of runway.

"Great," I say. "Good. Good for them."

Ethan looks at me for a long moment. "Okay," he says, and goes back to getting changed, because Ethan also knows when to let something go.

I shower. I get dressed. I have a completely normal conversation with Blake about the defensive zone coverage in the second period. I do not think about Emma's laugh or his jacket on her shoulders or any of it, and then we walk out of the arena.

Emma is near the entrance with Sienna and my sister Rory. The three of them are standing together near a cluster of fans who are waiting for photos and autographs. And next to Emma is the guy.

I see her before I process anything else.

The thing about Emma when she's dressed up for something is that there's no way to prepare for it. The library version of Emma is already distracting enough, which is a problem I've been managing. This version of Emma, in whatever she's wearing tonight under that guy's jacket, and I can see enough to know there's something under there worth seeing, is a different level of situation entirely.

I walk straight toward them.

The guy turns when I get close and I get a good look at him. Dark blond hair. Brown eyes. About five-ten. He's fine. He's completely fine. He's the kind of guy you'd describe as nice-looking and feel good about it. Nothing wrong with him whatsoever, which somehow does not help.

Emma sees me coming and something goes through her expression.

"Knox," she says. Flat. Careful.

"Hey." I look at the guy.

I put my hand out. “Knox.”

He reaches out. "Owen Bennett."

I shake it with the amount of force you use when you mean the handshake to communicate something, and he registers it, I see it in his face as I squeeze harder, and then he pulls back. He seems like a smart guy. He'll put it together.

"Knox Carter," I say.

"I know," Owen says. "Good game."

"Thanks." I look at Emma again. She's watching me like she’s not sure what I’ll do next. "So where are we going to dinner?"

"It's a couples thing," Emma says immediately.

And then I turn around.

There's a college-aged girl about ten feet away in a number-eighteen jersey. My number. She's with a group of friends and she's been watching us and she looks like she's about three seconds from working up the nerve to come over. I walk toward her.

"Hey," I say. "Thanks for coming to the game."

She makes a sound that is not entirely words. Her friends have all gone completely still.

"Can I sign that?" I gesture at the jersey. She nods and produces a marker from somewhere, which either means she came prepared or fate is on my side tonight, and I sign across the number on the back. "What's your name?"

"Madison."

"Madison. Would you want to grab dinner with us? A whole group is going. Should be fun."