Page 9 of Ruthless Edge

"You stole it," I say.

"I was keeping it warm for you."

"You were eating it."

"I was keeping it warm," she repeats, with great dignity, "from the inside."

And despite everything, despite the whole of this morning, I laugh.

It's a real one.

Maybe eight weeks won't kill me after all.

Chapter Three

Knox

Here's what I know about myself… I am very good at hockey, and I am very good at not taking life or other people too seriously. Most of the time, those two qualities cover everything I need.

The ice is the one place where both of them work together perfectly. Out here I don't have to think. I just skate. Coach calls a play and my body's already running it before my brain catches up, which is either a sign of excellent muscle memory or evidence that my brain is mostly decorative. Could go either way.

Today's practice has been outstanding, genuinely one of those sessions where everything clicks, where your edges are exactly where you want them, the puck goes where you're pointing it, and you feel like the best version of yourself. I've beaten Ethan on two separate drills, which I've made sure to mention both times, loudly, in case anyone missed it.

"You got lucky," Ethan says, coming around the far cone.

"Twice? That's skill."

"One of those was luck."

"Neither of those was luck."

"Knox." He's already moving into the next drill. "At least pretend to be humble."

"I'm humble," I say. "I'm incredibly humble. I'm the most humble person on this team."

"You just said you're the most humble person on this team."

"And I said it quietly."

He shakes his head, which is basically a laugh from Ethan, as I take the next pass from Declan and put it exactly where I want it. For a few minutes it's just this, the clean cold air, the sound of blades, and me enjoying what I’m good at.

Then I see her.

She's in the stands. Third row up, near the center, sitting very straight with her coat wrapped around her and a notebook open on her lap. Chestnut hair pulled back the way she wears it. Face turned slightly toward the ice.

Emma Lawson is at our practice.

My brain stops doing anything useful for several long seconds.

She came. She actually came here. To find me. Why else would she be here? She's not a hockey person, she doesn't cover the team, she has no reason to be in these stands unless she specifically wanted to be in these stands, which means she specifically wanted to find me, which, that has to be good. That has to mean something. You don't come to the practice of a guy you genuinely hate. You just don't.

Unless she’s dating someone else on the team. I push the thought aside. That wouldn’t happen. I wouldn’t let that happen.

I'm already moving before I've finished thinking any of that.

"Carter," Coach says behind me, in the tone that means he knows exactly what I'm doing and he's not happy about it.

I'm already at the glass.