Page 55 of Tripped Up

“Yeah. For as long as I’ve known you.” Bex pauses, her eyes on the ice ahead of us. Vancouver just got a shot on goal, missing wide. “You said thirteen years ago. We’ve only been friends for about five. And don’t get me wrong, I love you and I’m thankful for our friendship, but⁠—”

“It was before we met.” I rub at my forehead. “Then you and I became friends, and I didn’t know he was your brother until, like, a few months in when he came to visit, and then he didn’t remember we hooked up, and⁠—”

Bex’s boisterous laugh cuts me off. “You think he didn’t remember you?”

I pin her with a glare. “He didn’t know it was me. He looked me in the eye and said nice to meet you.”

“When you went to the bathroom, he told me you’d already hooked up and it hadn’t gone well. I just figured he couldn’t get it up and disappointed you.”

Despite the chill in the air, heat floods my face, turning my cheeks pink. “That… is not what happened.”

“Gross.” Her nose wrinkles, but she can’t hide her grin. “Well, at least he was good to you?”

I frown. “Kind of.”

Her expression turns thunderous. “Do I have to beat him up?”

“No. He was—he was fine. Good, even.” Hard plastic bites into my thigh as I squirm in my seat, clenching my thighs together at the memory of that night. My stomach twists as the second half of the memory comes to the forefront. “The next day, he said some things in front of his teammates, and⁠—”

“Oh, fuck no.” Bex shoves her shirtsleeves up her arms. “I’m going to punch him in the face.”

I catch her arm. “Don’t. It was a long time ago.”

“He hurt you.”

“Yeah, well…” I shrug. “I’m working on it.”

Letting go of some of her hostility, she sits back in her seat. “So. You guys hooked up recently? Are you going to again?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

He wants to start over. All this time, I thought he didn’t remember our night together. Then he opened his big, fat mouth and said something dumb—just like he had all those years ago.

Is that what he was referring to?

Rubbing at my forehead, I try to think this through.

“I’m so confused,” I admit.

“I know, sweetie.” She pats my knee. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Turning to watch the game, I try to keep my attention on the ice. Wyatt plays a hard, heavy-hitting game, grinding out his minutes with Henry and Riley on his line. They’re bruisers, looking to mess shit up, not so much score goals. Riley’s a scrappy little dude. He’s already been in a fight in his first six weeks in the league.

Henry looks like he’s about a shift away from going for a tilt with the entire Vancouver defense. He’s already two trips and a slash in. I’m surprised the coach hasn’t benched him for forcing the team into three penalty kills in the first two periods.

Wyatt lays a heavy hit on one of the Vancouver forwards, and the ref calls him for the cross-check, even though it was a clean hit on the numbers. Scowling, he strides toward the penalty box, stewing.

He rips his helmet off and takes a drink. Our seats are behind the players’ bench, so we’re across the ice from the box, but I have a perfect view of his frustration thanks to the Jumbotron focusing on him. He’s sweaty, his face flushed with exertion and probably irritation, glaring at the camera.

He’s so fucking hot. A shiver of heat runs through me, warming me from the inside out.

“Damn,” I mutter, and Bex winces.

“Gross,” she says. “That’s my brother you’re eye-fucking.”

“Yeah, well, your brother’s hot.” I cross my arms over my chest, like that’ll hide the way my nipples have pebbled in my bra. “Besides, I just told you we hooked up.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to see it.”