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For some reason, that actually pisses me off. “Of course I fucking like her. What kind of stupid-ass observation is that?”

Easton just gives me a knowing look. “Happy for you, man.”

“Thanks, man.” I point at Jordan. “You can go fuck yourself.”

He laughs.

Coach Brennan walks in before I can tell him to go fuck himself a second time.

“Unless you ladies want to spend the rest of practice discussing your feelings, get your asses on the ice.”

The room moves immediately.

I shove my phone into my bag before I do something stupid like miss practice because Coach Brennan’s daughter is sexting me.

Jesus Christ.

My life has gotten weird.

And really fucking good.

***

Practice is brutal, which is exactly what I need.

For the next hour and a half, there isn’t room in my head for Quinn, last night, or what might happen later tonight.

There’s only ice, skates, the puck, and Brennan’s whistle sending us through the same drills again and again and again.

We run the same transition until my lungs burn and sweat runs down my spine under my pads. Brennan stops us twice to correct positioning, once to yell at Cole, and once to ask Jordan if he plans to join us at some point today or if he'd prefer to watch from the stands.

Then we run a five-on-five drill and I bury one past the goalie from the right circle.

“Again,” Brennan calls.

Next shift, I pick off a pass through the neutral zone, get it to Easton, and drive hard enough toward the net to pull a defenseman with me.

Easton scores.

He points at me on the way past.

I point back.

“Larkin.”

I turn.

Brennan jerks his chin toward the boards.

I skate over.

He waits until the next group takes the ice before speaking.

“You've been sharp.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“I mean lately.”