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“Yeah, I don’t want to know,” Logan agrees, grinning.
The bill arrives then, and the two begin bickering about who’s going to pay it. I’m pretty sure it’s only like twenty bucks, and finally, I grab it myself.
“Please, let me treat my dear uncles.” I offer a beaming smile. “Young people should always be kind to the elderly.”
They both balk at me.
“Oh, I’m going to remember that,” Dean growls.
“I’m telling your father,” Logan adds.
“He knows he’s old. You don’t need to remind him.”
I pay the check, then tuck my wallet, along with the rink keys, into my oversized leather purse.
I stare at the stupid box of condoms. After a beat of hesitation, I shove it in my bag too, mostly to show them I’m cool and carefree and don’t blink at things like bulk condom purchases.
And then, before I know it, it’s time to go meet Luke Ryder.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RYDER
Condom math
MUNSEN IS A SMALL TOWN NEAR HASTINGS. FROM WHAT I’VE HEARD, it’s kind of a shithole. Yet when we pull up to the rink, it’s housed in a brand-new sprawling building with walls of gleaming windows. A complete contrast to the rest of the gritty, industrial-looking town.
Beckett notices too. He whistles softly from the passenger side of my Jeep, which, thanks to Owen, I was able to get fixed. I’ll pay him back, though. I don’t do handouts.
Gigi’s white SUV is the only other vehicle in the parking lot when we pull in. It’s 9:00 p.m. and the building just closed to the public according to the hours posted online.
“You sure she doesn’t mind I’m here?” asks Beckett, running a hand through his blond hair.
“I texted her earlier to confirm. All good.”
“Texting with our cocaptain’s ex-girlfriend. Look at you, living on the edge over here.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m not scared of Colson.”
We hop out of the Jeep.
“You got to admit, a bite of forbidden fruit always tastes sweeter.”
“I’m not looking to bang her. I said I’d help her behind the net. She said she’d talk me up to her dad. Win-win.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
“Dude, this was your idea.”
“Actually, it was Lindley’s idea.”
“Whatever. You cosigned it.”
Gigi is opening her trunk now. She’s in jeans and a tight white tank top, her dark hair arranged in a long braid down her back. She leans into the trunk and heaves out her hockey bag and a backpack. We do the same from the back of the Jeep.
“Hi,” she says at our approach. She casts a slightly wary look in Beckett’s direction.
He’s unfazed, flashing that obnoxious Australian grin of his. The one that utilizes maximum dimples. “Looking good, Graham.”
“Thanks.”
“What? Not going to return the compliment?”
She snorts.
“Wow, that hurts,” he says, slapping a hand over his heart in mock agony.
“Yeah, like you need me to stroke your ego.”
“My ego? No. But other things…” He trails off suggestively. And where it would’ve sounded slimy coming from any other dude, somehow Beckett pulls it off.
Gigi giggles, confirming my suspicions that Beckett Dunne can do and say no wrong when it comes to women.
Her laughter fades when our eyes lock. She bites her lip and I wonder if she’s thinking about the weekend. I know I am. For days I’ve been trying to make sense of the mountain of sexual tension that suddenly rose between us when we were hiding from the boosters.
When I almost kissed her.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one. Yes, she’s hot. I spent the whole night trying not to stare at her bare tanned legs. And don’t get me started on the rest of her body. Tight and sculpted. Hot enough to scald my blood.
Until the gala, though, I wasn’t thinking too hard about banging her.
Now I kind of am.
“Anyway.” She clears her throat. She has her bags over one shoulder, and a leather purse on the other. She slides a hand into the latter and pulls out a key ring. “Let’s go in.”
I raise a brow. “You got a key to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“What guy?” Beckett asks curiously.
“My uncle. He grew up here.”
At the entrance, there’s a small gold plaque screwed onto the outer wall that reads:
IN RECOGNITION OF JOHN LOGAN
FOR HIS GENEROUS DONATION TO BETTER
THE TOWN OF MUNSEN, MASSACHUSETTS
“Your uncle John Logan,” I mumble incredulously.
“I mean, not by blood, but he’s my dad’s best friend. My brother and I grew up calling him Uncle Logan.”
I try not to dwell on the realization that our childhoods were so drastically disparate, we may as well have been raised on two different planets. But a pang of bitterness rises nonetheless. For all she wishes her family name didn’t follow her around, the truth is, it does. It opens doors for her that I could never dream of opening for myself.
My mind flashes to the fancy, well-kept neighborhood we drove through Saturday night on our way to the country club. Again, a whole other planet from where I lived as a child. First the small two-bedroom Phoenix apartment where I lived with my parents before my mother died. Then the run-down foster homes with overgrown yards and sagging chain-link fences. It’s almost impossible to envision the idyllic upbringing Gigi must’ve had.
