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“Nope. He chatted her up, but remember when we went upstairs, he slid in through the elevator doors just as they were closing? Alone.”
“Okay, but what about that night at Erikson’s? Before the kid, obvs.”
“The night with the couch?”
Assorted sounds of disgust rise from the guys. But thankfully, the man of the hour walks in then, because I don’t want to know any more about the couch than I already do.
Nichols’s smile is cranked to epic proportions as he holds his arms up, rotating his hands, waving in the questions.
This guy.
The locker room goes nuts, players in various states of dress crowding in as the questions fly.
I pull on my pads. Squirt some water into my mouth. Wait for the answers.
Rux Meyers brushes a couple of the younger guys aside, his mouth tipped in a slant as he steps up to Nichols.
“Tea time.”
Nichols pulls out his phone, and sure as shit, there’s Misty on the home screen, snuggled up against him with her hand against his chest and the fourth finger sporting—
“Jesus, that thing’s like a satellite dish,” Rux coughs. “Nice, man.”
Nichols looks like he’s about to make kissy faces at the picture, but in the end, he settles for stroking it with his finger.
“Thanks.” And then he strolls past the rest of the guys to sit beside me on the bench. One heavy arm slings over my shoulder before he addresses the team. “Girls, you’re all pretty, but I’ve already picked a best man.”
He hugs me into his side, and I feel my face heat. Then, just as fast, he’s up and headed to his locker, talking about how he wants to marry her on the ice between periods and how he doesn’t think he can wait until after playoffs.
Rux sits beside me, his wild mane sticking out in every direction. Eyes still on Nichols, he leans into my space. “Didn’t know you guys were that close.”
We aren’t. But while I might not be the most open and chatty member of the team, no way I’m saying that. “I sort of introduced him to Misty.”
And then, before there’s time to elaborate, the coaches come in.
No more time to think about Nichols or Stormy or anything outside that sheet of ice we’re about to hit. Bit by bit, I shear off layers of the outside world.
My focus sharpens.
I know this team. I know the players. I know their weaknesses and their strengths and their moves and—
“Dude,” Nichols says, striding up beside me as we head for the tunnel. “You and Stormy last night, huh?”
My head whips around.
He nods. “Picture of you sucking face turned up.”
“What?” I choke.
Nichols’s shoulder bumps mine. “You and I are going to have a word after the game.”
12
Liam
Imanage to get my head back where it’s supposed to be before the puck drops. It’s a physical game. I end up in the box once but balance it out with an assist, and we eke out the win. But it was too close. Something Coach makes sure we know, and the press wants to talk about.
My attitude— or, more specifically, lack of one —means they don’t want to talk to me for long, and I’m out quick. Nichols is waiting for me outside the locker room.
