Page 16 of The Wingman

I bite down on my grin and pretend to look worried. “Can you check anyway? Please?”

His expression softens. “Of course.”

Hayden walks through the living room to the patio doors, sees the garden gnome peering in the window, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus fuck! No!” He shudders.

I’m doubled over laughing.

“Where did that come from?”

“Oh my god, it’s Daniel!” I put on a huge, welcoming smile and wave at the creepy porcelain gnome I bought earlier today. Tears sting my eyes, I’m laughing so hard. “He finally found where you live. He said he’s been searching for you.”

“Darcy.” Hayden rubs a hand down his face, staring at the garden ornament with disgust and disdain.

Daniel the Garden Gnome has been following Hayden since his grandmother gifted him to me back when we visited her for lunch one day during our third year at university. The biggest mistake Hayden ever made was telling me how much he hates garden gnomes and how creepy he finds them.

“And he got a new hat.” I walk over to the glass and wave at the gnome. “Nice to see you again, Daniel. What’s that?” I bend down and cup my hand to my ear, pretending to listen. “You want to sleep in Hayden’s bed?”

Hayden cringes. “Keep that fucking creepy thing outside where it belongs. Or better yet, get rid of it.”

“You said I could make any change I wanted.”

“Not that change. Anything but that.”

He backtracks through the living room, grabs his water bottle, and heads toward the hallway that leads to our bedrooms. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and a bird will carry it away and drop it in the ocean.”

My chest shakes with laughter. “Good night, Hayden.”

At the entrance to the hallway, he pauses, smiling back at me. “Good night, Darce.”

Maybe he refuses to touch me for some reason, but I’m starting to see how fun living with Hayden will be.

CHAPTER 8

HAYDEN

“Owens,we’re not at the driving range,” Miller calls the next morning during practice. “Don’t rear back so far.”

I huff a laugh and adjust my swing, sending the puck hurtling toward Streicher in the net.

“Nice.” Miller watches while I work through the rest of the pucks.

By the boards, Ward makes notes. It’s one of our lighter practices of the week. We’re focusing on detailed work like wrist shots and snap shots, but I can’t tell whether I’m living up to his expectations.

Eventually, Ward blows his whistle.

“That’s good for today,” he calls to us, gesturing to the bench. The third-line forwards hit the ice and we skate away.

My gaze strays to the other end of the ice, where Volkov’s working with the assistant coach and the second-line defenseman they moved into my old spot on the first line. It feels strange not playing with him anymore, like I’m wearing new shoes that need breaking in.

“So what’s this shit about teaching Darcy to be a player?” Miller asks with a smirk as we head to the dressing room.

I bite back a groan. I was hoping he’d forget, but knowingRory Miller, there was no fucking way. I adopt my own cheeky smirk.

“Why? Do you want in on those lessons?”

He laughs. “Those days are long gone for me, buddy. I’m locked down for life.” A proud grin stretches across his face, and there’s a weird pang in my chest.

---