Page 59 of Playing With Fire

Deacon looks at me.

“With his face on them,” Beau skates up and adds.

“And his phone number,” Jax contributes.

Deacon loses it. Not a chuckle, but lose-all-self-control fucking laughter.

I stand there and let him have his moment. “You done?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep laughing. Your initiation’s coming.”

That sobers him up a little.

“Wait.” He’s still grinning. “Your actual phone number?”

“Unfortunately.”

“How many calls did you get?”

“Enough.”

Mercer snorts. I glare at him.

“He had to change his fucking number.”

“Two days later,” I mutter.

Deacon loses it all over again.

“Fuck all of you.”

The whistle shrieks before he can ask another question. I point toward center ice. “Go learn how to play defense.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He’s still laughing when he skates away. Asshole. I reach for my water bottle and glance automatically toward the clock.

Shit.

I need to move. Not because we’re late. We’ve still got enough time to finish the last set.

But five-thirty is sitting in the back of my mind now, along with Wilder House and the address Laney rattled off this morning.

I told her I’d pick her up.

And I know her well enough to know if I’m not standing outside when I said I would be; she’ll give me about thirty seconds before deciding she never needed my help in the first place and head to the showing without me.

Not happening.

“Last set!” Coach shouts.

I shove the bottle back into its holder and push off.

The next few minutes are nothing but hockey.

Hard edges. Quick passes. The scrape of blades chewing through ice that’s gone rough beneath us. Sticks cracking together. Somebody swearing when a puck catches them high on the pads. Coach shouting from the boards.