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Blue’s mouth curls into a snarl. “Lincoln.” He spits the name like it tastes bad. “My step-brother.”

Ah.

“Okay,” I say, because I’m not touching his family drama with a stick. “You good?”

“I’m fucking fine.” He rips up a strip of the tape and stretches it between his fingers. “He doesn’t belong in this building unless he’s bleeding in a cage. Next time he shows his face near my ice, I’m putting him through the fucking glass.”

I raise my eyebrows and hold back my smile. “Noted.”

I keep walking toward the locker room. I absolutely do not ask what Lincoln wanted or why Blue looks sorta like his heart was put in a blender. Family shit. Not my circus.

Except it kind of is, because Quinn grew up with the step-brother, and Blue already scoffed at Quinn’s name as though it was all part of the same wound. I file that under the mental box of later, maybe never and push into the locker room.

Today’s scrimmage is going to be filled with tension if both me and Blue are going through something. At least it doesn’t count toward any kind of playoffs and is only to test our skills against a nearby college, who we don’t even play during the season. Which means nobody’s ring is on the line. Just pride.

I drop my bag and pull out my stick. I take the old tape off and start taping fresh tape on. It didn’t need it yet, but I have time. And it takes my mind off of Quinn.

Before I know it, it’s time for the scrimmage and I’m beyond warmed up. The other guys are in great moods, with the exception of Blue. He’s still vibrating with leftover anger. At least I don’t have to worry about him slamming me into the boards today, because we are on the same side. The other team needs to stay clear of him though.

“Ready to go, boys?” Peter crows, and is answered with a room full of cheers and a bunch of yeahs. That’s what it’s like when you get a room full of dudes together. It’s actually one of the best parts of hockey, the team part of it.

We win easily. Blue plays like the other bench personally invited Lincoln into the building. And I play like I’m running from something and taking the puck with me.

I shower fast, skip the extra locker room talk, and push out of the athletic doors into late morning light.

Quinn is there.

He’s standing off to the side of the entrance with his hands in his pockets, and the smile he aims at me is huge in a way that looks like he practiced it in the mirror. Too much teeth, his eyes a little tight. But he still looks happy, even if he is smiling too big. It eases something in my chest.

“Hey,” I say, coming to a stop in front of him. I adjust my bag on my shoulder and grin at him, because I can’t help it.

“Hi.” The big smile stays in place, and I want to laugh. “You won.”

I do laugh at that. “You could tell from out here?” He definitely wasn’t inside, I would have felt his eyes on me the same way I did the other day at practice.

“People came out talking. Also you look—” He stops, glances at my still-damp hair, and starts again. “You look happy and like you played good. I thought you might need sustenance after expending that much energy. I can buy lunch. If you don’t have other plans.” His gaze goes to one of the puck bunnies hovering at the exit doors. I follow it. Megan. She is probably waiting for Peter. They have a thing.

“I do have plans actually,” I say, hitching my bag higher and smiling. His face falls for a second before I add, “I’m getting lunch with my smart roommate, because he knows that I’m starving. Burgers or tacos?”

Some of the fake brightness eases into something real. “There’s a small place that has amazing tacos on Third Street.”

I let out an exaggerated happy sigh. “Los Amigos? They have the best Mexican sandwich.”

“Torta,” he says, like he can’t help himself.

“Don’t start. I’m celebrating.”

“Yes, your win must be exciting,” he says.

I glance over at him as we start walking. “Not that. I’m celebrating our friendship, because roommates definitely don’t offer to take each other to lunch. That’s a friends-only thing.”

Quinn is quiet for a few steps, and I wish I could read his mind. “I like being your friend,” he finally says.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I’ve never been friend-zoned so quickly. Normally, I’m the one to do the friend zoning.

I force a smile to my lips and bump his shoulder lightly. “You know what being my friend means, right?”

He shakes his head looking up at me. “What does it mean?”