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“Yeah, it’s the best card I have, but it’s got a tear. Mom tried to fix it, but you can still see the crease.”
“Impressive.”
“I’ve been collecting them since I was a little boy. It’s my thing,” he said proudly.
“Neat thing.” Harper smiled. “Who knows, maybe one day, you’ll have a card with Mason’s grumpy face on it.” Her eyes gazed at mine, the faintest smile on her face.
“It’ll happen.”
No hesitation, not a flicker of uncertainty. Just a definitive answer as if he knew without a shadow of a doubt that I’d make it. That I’d go all the way.
“Coach Dixon thinks he can do it.”
Harper went still, and I wondered whether she realized her hand had curled into a fist at her side.
“I’m sure he does.” She glanced away, the temperature dropping to subzero.
What the fuck had happened between them?
I tamped down the urge to ask her about it.It’s none of your business, asshole.
“Who’s your favorite player, Harper?” Scottie stared up at her with big, wide eyes. It wasn’t lost on me that it had only taken a pretty girl to bring him out of his shell.
“I’m a Penguins fan. So I’m going to go with Kris Letang or Lemieux.” I gawked at her, and she looked over. “What?”
“Nothing.” I folded my arms over my chest.
I’d assumed her hockey knowledge was for show. An ode to the fact her father was something of a local legend.
I didn’t think—
“Who’s your favorite player?” She shot back, some color finally warming her cheeks again.
The same shade of pink she’d flushed when I was deep inside her, fucking into her like I might never get another chance.
Because you won’t get another chance.
“Alex Ovechkin, hands down.”
“Three times Ted Lindsay Award winner,” Scottie started, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Awarded the Hart Memorial Trophy three times.” Harper glanced at my brother, and they shared a small, secretive smile.
“Won the Maurice Richard Trophy nine times.”
“Don’t forget the Conn Smythe Trophy,” she added.
Okay. What the fuck was happening right now? I was being tag teamed by my little brother and the girl I was trying—and failing—to get out of my head.
“You know hockey,” I said, a little awed.
“Well, yeah.” She gave a tiny shrug, her big blue eyes glittering with something.
“Yeah, but I mean, youknowhockey.”
“You do know who my dad is, right?” Harper chuckled, but it sounded all wrong.
“Yeah, but still.” It was my turn to shrug.
