Page 79 of Home Ice

“Don’t make me shoot a puck at you. It will hurt you, then I’ll feel bad, and you might be too injured later to suck my dick.”

He throws his head back on a bark of laughter. “I’d never be too injured for that.”

I pin him with a look. “Ask him.”

“Looks like my stubbornness is rubbing off on you.”

“I’ve always been stubborn. Unlike you, I know when to use it.”

“And when Kasen tells me that he’d rather launch himself into a pit of rabid dogs than be seen with me?”

I tap my stick on the ice. “I’ll kiss it all better.”

He throws me a dry look before turning to where Kasen is skating toward us.

“Need a lift home?” Hawke asks.

“Sure.” There’s zero enthusiasm in his voice.

“Want to stop in at the cafe on the way?”

Kasen’s face scrunches up. ‘‘Why?”

“I dunno. Grab coffee. Or … food.”

Kasen’s gaze bores into Hawke’s face for so long that even I’m uncomfortable. Eventually, he says, “I like ice cream.”

“Okay.” Hawke’s voice is too enthusiastic, but the hope behind his tone gets me in the chest. “We’ll stop and grab some.”

“Fine. Can we train now?”

I jump in before the conversation goes any further, and it’s like I can feel Hawke’s excitement. Not from him, but for him. Like I’m so in tune that his own emotions are building in my chest. I smile more than I normally do during training, but I can’t make myself stop.

I can try harder tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-Five

JENSEN

Ifeel sick as Kasen and I climb into my car, side by side like we’ve done a few times now. Only unlike the low-effort drives home, today has a lot of pressure attached. We’re going to deviate from the simple moments, and I need it to go well.

We head for the general store that has a bar along one wall, selling everything from hot dogs to sandwiches to cold meats, and down the end … ice cream. Sharon and Alison are sisters who own the place, and their philosophy is the more, the better.

“This okay?” I ask when we pull up out front.

“Where else are we going to go?”

I don’t point out that if he asked me to drive to Burlington, I would, and just let the question slide. “What’s your flavor?”

He shrugs those too-broad shoulders. “Dunno. I’ll have a look.”

“I always go for chocolate.”

“Basic.”

He’s trying to bait me into an argument, but it’s not going to work. This will go well, fuckdammit. “Ahh … I remember being fourteen and having big opinions on things.”

“Okay, Dad.”