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Carma unlocks her little red hatchback. “All right, big boy. Get in.”
She gives me a teasing little grin, and it does nothing to abate my internal rage.
I dive into the car and direct her to the two-lane road toward the Briar campus. Within minutes I’m twitching with impatience. She’s driving five miles over the speed limit, so the rational part of my brain knows I can’t ask her to go any faster than that. She’s already speeding. But goddamn it, if it were me, I’d be risking a hundred tickets to make it on time.
I drum my fingers against the center console, hitting the imaginary gas with my foot and dying inside the entire drive to campus. Carma tries making conversation and I diligently ignore her. I’m scared of what I might say.
It’s five minutes to nine when we pull into the parking lot of the Graham Center. There’s zero chance I’ll be dressed and on the ice before Coach blows his whistle. That’s just a fact. Hopefully the car-broke-down excuse will suffice, but Jensen’s been giving us serious grief since camp started. He’s on the verge of cutting any of us at any time. I wouldn’t put it past him to dump even me, the cocaptain, for the crime of tardiness.
Carma puts the car in park. I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the door handle.
“What, no kiss goodbye?”
I’m too pissed to even look at her. “I have to go.”
“Seriously? We spent the night together and you can’t spare two more seconds to kiss me goodbye?”
If only to avoid any more delay, I dutifully lean in for a kiss. To my sheer annoyance, she doesn’t leave it as a peck. Next thing I know, she’s climbing into the passenger side and onto my lap, arms around my neck, tongue prodding through my surprised lips.
“Carma,” I caution against her mouth, curling a firm hand over her waist to try to move her off me.
She starts kissing my neck, and my anger boils over. Because this is my career we’re talking about. Jensen is watching me. My NHL draft team is watching me. If I want to play in the pros and succeed there, I can’t be making out with some girl while the rest of my teammates are warming up for practice.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say tightly. “Now move.”
All right, that was harsh.
But the last thread of my patience has snapped like a cheap elastic band. First she changes my alarm, and now she won’t let me get out of the car?
I’m done here.
I manage to open the door and get myself out from under her. I jump out, lunging forward just as my peripheral vision catches another flash of movement. For a second I think it’s Carma getting out of the car, but my step stutters when I notice the man clicking his key fob to lock a black Range Rover two spaces over.
It’s Garrett Graham.
For a moment I’m rendered both speechless and motionless. I stand there as the hockey legend struts toward me with a travel mug in hand. I haven’t seen him since the hockey camp I was invited to attend as a teenager.
He glances at the red hatchback with Carma still behind the wheel. Then he scowls at me, and I know without a doubt that he saw her in my lap.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Can this day get any worse?
“Morning skate starts at nine, doesn’t it, Mr. Ryder?”
Yes, apparently it can get worse.
“I know. I’m running late. I had car trouble.” I wince as the excuse leaves my mouth.
“Looks like some serious car trouble,” Garrett says with a bite to his tone. His frown hasn’t abated.
He matches my pace up the concrete walkway toward the entrance.
“My car broke down in the driveway,” I find myself explaining, like some desperate attempt to win his approval. “So I had to catch a ride this morning. But my driver didn’t see the urgency in getting me here on time.”
“Not really her responsibility, now is it?” Lifting a brow, he stalks through the front doors.
I give up.
On my mad race down the hall, I wonder what Graham is even doing here. Maybe he’s here to see his daughter.
The empty locker room is an accusation. A slap in the face. I can barely stomach myself as I strip out of my clothes and throw on my pads and practice uniform. Everyone else is on the ice, where they should be. And I’m here like a fucking idiot. All because I wanted to get laid last night. I already have a target on my back. From Jensen, from Colson and his guys, from the NHL. And now my idol thinks I can’t get to practice on time.
Fuck my life.
I leave my phone on the mahogany shelf in my locker and sit on the bench to lace up my skates. A minute later, I walk down the rubber-coated pathway on my skate guards and emerge into the rink, where I’m relieved to find practice isn’t underway yet.
