Page 22

My heart is beating faster than it should.

I hate how much I don’t hate this.

Wyatt doesn’t leave. Of course, he doesn’t.

The banter eventually runs out of oxygen.

For a few seconds, we just stand there, allowing the noise of the rink fill the silence between us.

Then Wyatt nods toward the far end of the ice. “You want to walk the perimeter? I’m supposed to be mingling anyway. Might as well do it with someone who won’t ask me for a selfie every ten seconds.”

I should say no.

But there’s still that girl inside me with a big, fat crush on Wyatt Larkin, and apparently she has absolutely no interest in dying quietly.

I’m drawn to him. I can’t deny that anymore.

It’s everything that comes with him that I don’t want. The casual hookups. The revolving door of women. The way kissing someone seems to mean one thing to me and something entirely different to him.

Getting closer to Wyatt feels like wanting something I already know I shouldn’t have.

“Sure,” I say anyway.

We fall into step along the boards, as I welcome the familiar feel of the cold radiating off the glass. I sneak a glance at Wyatt, surprised he’s not trying to flirt. He just walks beside me, hands in his pockets, like this is normal.

I’m hyperaware of his shoulder brushing mine every few steps, but I refuse to move away. Because that would be admitting something.

“You know the power play setup they’re running looks like shit from up here,” I say after a minute, mostly to fill the space. “They keep overloading the left side and forgetting Dmitri’s release on the half-wall.”

Wyatt glances at me, surprised. “You actually watch film?”

“I grew up in this building. I’ve forgotten more systems than most guys on the ice have learned.”

He looks at me for a second. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Dad used to bring me here all the time when I was little. After school, weekends, whenever he couldn’t find someone to watch me. I’d sit in his office while he went through game tape, or up in the stands during practice.”

“And you paid attention?”

“Not at first. When I was really little, I mostly colored or did homework. But there are only so many hours you can spend listening to someone break down the same plays before you start understanding what they’re talking about.”

He nods slowly. “So your dad actually taught you?”

“Some of it. Mostly I just picked it up. As I got older, he started asking what I saw when he watched film. Sometimes he’d rewind something and make me figure out where the play broke down before he told me.”

Wyatt’s attention stays on me. “Were you good at it?”

“I think so. Dad wouldn’t have kept asking if I wasn’t.”

“That’s true.”

I expect that to be the end of it, but Wyatt keeps looking at me with this thoughtful expression, like he’s filing away everything I’m telling him. It catches me off guard. I’m used to the flirting and the jokes and the way he always seems to be looking for an opening to get a reaction out of me. I’m not used to him asking me questions and then actually seeming interested in the answers.

“Did you ever want to do something with hockey yourself?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not professionally. Hockey was always Dad’s thing, and I think I wanted something that belonged to me. But I still love it. I probably always will.”

“That makes sense.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I guess I never really thought about what it must’ve been like for you growing up around all of this.”