Page 38

Music blasts from Baxter's speaker, a massive crate of beer has been delivered from the Ski Bar despite it being barely past noon, and the entire team is engaged in a dispute over who deserves credit for the winning goal.

"It was my vision," Nate announces, shirtless, arms spread like he's accepting an award. "I saw the whole play before it happened. Like a chess master."

"Fuck off. You only passed because Miles was screaming at you," Aidan says, unlacing his skates and sipping his second beer already.

"I passed because of instinct."

"I scored it!" Baxter yells from on top of a bench, still half-dressed, beer raised. "Me! The rookie! This is the greatest day of my life, so if you could all stop arguing so I can please enjoy this moment!"

"It's an exhibition game, son," Coach Dave says from the middle of the chaos, calmly topping up his thermos from a whiskey bottle he's not even bothering to hide anymore. "Don't get emotionally attached to winning. It never lasts. I coached for thirty-one years, you know what lasted?"

A collective groan rumbles around the room, like Grandpa has taken the steering wheel again.

"Nothing," Coach continues on like we give a shit about his third drunken ramble for the day. "My knees didn't last. My hair didn't last." He screws the cap back on. "Whiskey lasts."

Near the locker-room entrance, Eden appears in the doorway to congratulate Nate. Of course, he is again shirtless, but somehow becomes noticeably more shirtless the moment he spots her.

I stand and watch as he rolls his shoulders back like a man posing for a statue.

"Great game," Eden says, eyes fixed very deliberately on his face.

"Thanks. Did you see the pass?"

"I saw the pass." Her gaze dips to his chest for a quarter of a second before snapping back up. "Very unselfish."

"I'm an unselfish guy." He leans against the doorframe, and her eyes fall again, and he watches it happen with the smuggest expression I've ever seen on a human being. "You're staring at my chest, Eden."

"I am not—there's a bruise. I was looking at your bruise, Nate."

I'm laughing at the whole circus when my phone starts vibrating inside my locker. I grab it out and the screen says WILL.

I grab it and step out into the quiet corridor, where the noise fades to a bass thump behind the door and the big windows look down over the resort grounds.

"Tell me you watched," I say, answering the call.

"We watched." Will's grin travels down the phone line. "ESPN, baby. The Stratton name on national television, and you didn't even fall into the net this time."

"Fuck off, asshole."

He laughs and keeps going. "Mom streamed it in the farm office. She pretended she was doing the accounts, but she screamed when that kid scored. She knocked over her tea and all."

"And Hunter? Did he watch?"

"Of course, bro. He's currently writing you a fifteen-paragraph tactical review, though. So beware. I just called first so you'd hear a normal human voice. Also, those uniforms. You look like candy canes that lift liquorice weights."

I look down at myself and nod. "They photograph well."

"You look like Santa's private security team."

I laugh, but then I hear the small pause underneath his voice. The one that's been living in every call from home for two years no matter how well I've played.

"Will. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. Great game—"

"Will."

He exhales, long and slow. "Mom and I went through the end-of-year numbers last night."