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He shoved me, and I threw my head back and laughed. He joined in, and I didn’t know how long we sat there just chuckling because we couldn’t stop, but it felt good to do this with him. The more I got to know him, the more I understood him.
When we finally quieted down, I gave him a small smile. “Atlas, I’m serious. Have one game off. It’ll be fine. You had a really bad allergic reaction. I was worried about you.”
“You care about me, Birdy?” He leaned his head toward me, and while I knew avoidance when I saw it, my grin widened. I couldn’t help that my insides flipped in excitement or that the scent of his clean musk tickled my nose and made my heart skip a beat. Well, fucking hell.
“Maybe I care about the dick that fucks me.” I brushed my nose against his. He could avoid the subject all he wanted, but Coach Hill got the final say, and I knew Coach. He wouldn’t let Atlas go in when the doctor said no, which meant we would have to deal with Atlas’s bad mood come game day. “Want to go home and put it to use?”
He smashed his mouth against mine, and I moaned, cupping his cheek. I melted quicker than chocolate in a heated pan.Fuck.I was a goner.
“Yeah,” he said against my lips. “I want to eat out your pretty ass and show you how well I am.”
How could a guy say no to that?
But first....
“Let’s go to the rink,” I murmured, surprising him into sitting back.
“What?” he asked, nose crinkling in a very adorable way that didn’t quite fit what I’d seen of him so far. Atlas wasn’t supposed to becute. He was muscular and wide and a brute of a hockey player. He wasn’t cute—except hewas. “What happened to all that talk about me resting?”
“You can. You will.” I sent him a wide grin and turned the car on. In less than a minute, I had the Bentley heading in the direction of the arena. “But first, I want to show you something.”
He frowned but shrugged in response. Leaning back against the seat, he sighed and tilted his head to stare out at the scenery that flew past. I let him contemplate in silence because I already had an inkling of what was going through his mind.
While I hadn’t always been as committed as him to hockey, I was still a professional athlete and familiar with the pressures that came with it. Before hockey, I’d had figure skating. It was all about diets and schedules. I’d been ordered not to date because it was adistraction, and my coach had watched me like a hawk. For a teenager, that came with a lot of issues.
I parked close to the rink and got out.
Atlas’s frown deepened, but he followed cautiously. “You haven’t brought me here to kill me, have you?”
I laughed and grinned back at him over my shoulder. “You caught on to my ultimate plan. I’m really the killer fromScream, Ghost Mask.”
He snorted out a chuckle. “Ghost Mask? Don’t you mean the Ghostface Killer? Have you ever watched it?”
I shrugged and shook my head as we neared the door. “Nope. I’m not into horror.”
“What iswrongwith you?” he mumbled, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear it, but I laughed again anyway.
I knocked on the door roughly and waited a second, relieved when it opened and one of the Zamboni drivers stuck out his head. He grinned as soon as he saw me, showing off a few gold teeth from his own years of hockey. Hank was an awesome guy, who had a penchant for long, meandering discussions about his daughters and when he played during junior year. I liked to stop and let him talk sometimes because one thing I’d learned in my short life was that everyone had something to offer eventually. We could all help each other out.
“Hey, Hank.” I held out my hand, and he shook it rather passionately.
“Wystan, how ya goin’, boy? What ya doin’ back already?” He peeked over my shoulder at Atlas with a pursed mouth, and I suspected that he didn’t like Atlas very much. Hank’s weathered skin was pulled tight over a gaunt face and bloodshot brown eyes. He was a drinker with a criminal record—he’d served time for driving under the influence—and this was the only job he could get. Overall, he was a nice guy trying to better his life. The only real terrifying thing about him was the black Grim Reaper ink that spanned across and up his neck.
“I know our practice is finished, Hank, but do you think you can give us half an hour on the ice? I want to show my teammate something.” I gestured at Atlas, whose face scrunched in a way that said he would rather be anywhere else.
Hank hummed thoughtfully, jaw cocked to the side. Finally, his gaze slid back to me and he grinned again. “Half an hour, sure thin’. You’re a good kid, Wystan. I can help out.” He shifted to the side to give us space to get through.
“Hank, you legend!” I slapped him on the arm as I walked past him, and Atlas sighed, following me.
He leaned in close once we’d left Hank behind. “You knowhe’llprobably be the Ghostface Killer in this scenario, right?”
I rolled my eyes and reached back to knock him gently in the stomach. “Talk about stereotyping. Hank’s nice. He has five daughters and went through a bad time in his life. We’re all allowed second chances. Well... most of us. Abusers and cheaters aren’t.”
“Eh.” Atlas didn’t sound as if he believed me, but he kept following until I had him in the first row of the audience seats. I shoved him down, and his eyes lit up with a fire, but I shook my head.
“Don’t get the wrong idea.” I chuckled anyway.
Some of the excitement left him as his shoulders slumped. “Boo.”
