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“You drove Quinn Brennan home.”
Not even a question. The nosy bastard says it loud enough for half the room to hear.
I drop my bag with a thud and grin. “Morning to you too, princess. Jealous you didn’t get a turn?”
Jordan leans back against his locker, arms crossed. “From the top of a Ferris wheel all the way to her front door? That’s a lot of personal attention for Coach’s daughter, Larkin.”
“Relax, Maddox. What was I supposed to do, leave Coach’s daughter dangling from the Ferris wheel like a piñata?”
I yank my hoodie off and toss it at him. He bats it away easily.
Kai glances up from his phone for half a second, expression blank, then goes right back to whatever the hell he’s reading. Or texting. Probably Ava, judging by how much time he spends on his phone these days. The silence from him feels louder than Jordan’s chirping, but I ignore it anyway.
Easton just shakes his head with a small smirk and keeps lacing his skates.
“Relax, boys,” I say, loud enough for the whole room. “Your favorite troublemaker didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Jordan mutters, but he’s grinning now.
I drop to the bench and start pulling off my sneakers.
The locker room hums with the familiar sounds of pads being strapped on, sticks being taped, and guys talking shit before practice. It’s comfortable. Predictable. Business as usual.
On the ice, though, I’m on fire.
I fly down the wing, shoulders loose, trying to stop myself from laughing as I roast my teammates.
I strip the puck from Dmitri and yell, “Too slow, grandpa!” knowing that would get him riled up, but he’s too slow to catch up. I circle the net and roof one past Camden so clean he doesn’t even react for a second.
“Jesus Christ, Larkin,” Camden mutters, fishing the puck out of the net.
Coach Brennan blows the whistle. “Larkin! Save some of that for tomorrow night.”
I tap my stick on the ice and grin at Camden. “You’re welcome, baby.”
Every time my mind tries to wander back to dark brown hair and sharp blue eyes and that pissed-off look under the streetlight, I push harder. I hit bigger. I singe the skin off my teammates.
By the end of practice I’m drenched in sweat and buzzing.
And still thinking about her.
***
I'm coming out of the tunnel, still buzzing from practice, stick over my shoulder, when Coach Brennan rounds the corner from the opposite direction and we nearly walk into each other.
He stops. I stop.
"Larkin."
"Coach." I shift my stick to my other shoulder.
He looks at me for a moment with those sharp blue eyes that I am absolutely not thinking about in relation to anyone else right now.
"Good session today. Your positioning in the third drill was sloppy. Fix it."
"Yes, sir."
"Your edge work is the best on this team when you commit to it." He says this the way other men say you're welcome. Like it costs him something. "Don't get lazy."
