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Hart shakes his head.
“Are you going back to the rink later?”
We’re almost at the end of winter break. Spring semester—ourfinalsemester—starts Monday. Conor’s taken advantage of the calmness on campus the past couple of weeks to fit in extra skates most days. I’m surprised he’s at home right now instead of out on the ice.
Another head shake. “I’m busy later. And I thought we talked about you not being my schedule secretary, Phillips.”
I groan. “I’m not asking to be nosy. I just need a ride to the rink later. I’m supposed to meet with Coach.”
“You’re meeting with Coach today?” Hunter asks, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Why?”
I shrug. “Dunno. He texted me after practice yesterday, asking to meet today.”
“Weird.” Hunter glances at Conor, who’s pulling on his jacket. “Did you get anything? I didn’t.”
Hart shakes his head a third time, then looks over at me. “I can drop you off at the rink on the way to Harlow’s.”
“I’m not supposed to meet Coach until five,” I tell him. “My balls will be frozen by then.”
Hart heads for the hallway, obviously eager to leave. “Fine. See you guys later.”
I finish my yogurt, toss it in the trash, and then follow Conor.
His car is already gone by the time I get my boots on and walk out our front door.
The January wind rips right through the flannel I’m wearing as I approach my truck, parked next to Hunter’s green SUV. Myuselesstruck, as I discovered when I tried to go out last night. A fourth Washington winter appears to have been too much for it.
Despite my silent prayer that the issue magically resolved itself overnight, the engine doesn’t so much as click when I press the button that’s supposed to turn on the truck.
I press my forehead to the cold steering wheel, swear under my breath, and then climb out of the driver’s seat.
I know nothing about cars. I’ll have to call a mechanic to come tow it to a garage to get looked at.
Hunter is still sitting in the same spot at the table when I reenter the kitchen, his legs stretched out so far I have to step over them to get to the other chair.
“Didn’t start?” he asks without looking up from whatever book he’s reading.
Hunter was home last night when I discovered my truck is currently useless.
Conor wasn’t, but he didn’t even bother asking why I wanted a ride. Lately, if it isn’t related to hockey or his new girlfriend, it’s off his radar.
“Nope.” I sigh.
He nods toward my coffee cup, then smirks. “Call Brooke. Bet she’ll give you a ride.”
My hungover memory of the blonde who served me and someof the guys coffee earlier is vague, but yeah, she probably would. I barely remember what I said to her or what the hell we’re supposed to be doing tomorrow night. I was distracted and exhausted this morning. Still am, actually. And ever since winter break, it’s been harder not to compare every flirtation to that night in the hot tub. To keep interest, when they’ve all been lackluster in comparison.
“Can you drive me?” I plead. “At quarter of five?”
Hunter raises one of his damn eyebrows at me again.
“Please,” I add. After experiencing how fucking freezing it is out, I have no interest in walking. “Or let me borrow your car?”
“I’ve seen you drive, Phillips. You’re not borrowing my car.”
“Then give me a ride. I brought you coffee, remember?”
“You mean theblandcoffee?” Hunter is annoyingly good at holding a grudge.
