Page 60 of Playing With Fire

I stop thinking.

Finally.

Mercer comes through the neutral zone with speed. I read the defense, cut across, and drag one of them with me. Space opens behind him. There.

I don’t even have to look. I sent the puck back across the grain. Mercer’s stick is waiting. The shot cracks off his blade and hits the net.

Whistle.

“That’s it!”

The guys ease up around me, chests heaving, jerseys damp beneath our gear.

Deacon coasts past and taps his stick against mine. “Good pass, old man.”

I stare at him.

He takes off toward the tunnel before I can answer.

“Smartest thing you’ve done all practice!” I call after him.

His laugh echoes back.

Mercer falls into step beside me as we leave the ice. “You sure you’re skipping O’Shea’s?”

“Yep.”

“For apartment hunting.”

“Yep.”

He gives me a sideways glance. And I give him one right back. “Say it.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Bullshit.”

He grins and heads through the tunnel, fist in the air. “Have fun with your best friend’s sister, Cap!”

And there it is.

I shake it off and move on.

I follow the guys off the ice, blades hitting rubber, the cold of the rink giving way to the warmer air drifting out from the locker room.

Normally, I’m the first one asking what time we’re meeting at O’Shea’s. A cold beer, good food, a few hours of listening to these assholes talk shit after practice—that’s my kind of night. And I usually don’t like to miss, so I can make sure all the guys make good choices and get home safe. I know Jax will keep them in line.

But tonight, I don’t even think twice. Apparently, picking up Laney to tour a shitty apartment in a worse neighborhood sounds better.

Fuck.

CHAPTER NINE

BISHOP

Eleven minutes late. Not excessive, but apparently late enough for Laney to leave without me.

I illegally park in front of Wilder House and scan the sidewalk for the third time. Nothing.