Page 67 of Burn

I don’t respond, and after a moment, she pulls her arm out of my grasp and turns, walking toward the ice. The dressing room is full of the team. Ronan and Cally sit next to each other, lacing up their skates. When they see me, they both grin, and Ronan teases, “Well. Well. Well. Look who decided to grace us with his presence.”

I flip him off as I drop my bag to the ground.

“Fuck you. I was here for the last round, too, dick.”

The guys laugh, the sound drowning out my thoughts about Lex.

“Well, thank god for that,” Cally says. “Can we expect the same glowing attitude we saw then?”

I drop to the bench, putting my head in my hands, and groan, “Please. Don’t start. It’s been a brutal couple of weeks.”

“Uh oh!” Ronan shouts.

One by one, the rest of the guys repeat it.

“Uh oh!”

“Uh oh!”

“Uh oh!”

“Grow up,” I snap, but I can’t help the smile spreading across my face.

I change into my gear as the guys fill me in on the positions we need to recruit for. A couple of the guys from last season dropped out, either because they moved away, their wives are pregnant, or the attention of internet fame became too much.

“We need a new goalie,” Cally casually comments.

This catches my attention, and my head snaps toward him. “What do you mean? What happened to Dave?”

Cally rolls his eyes as he responds, “He fucking broke his ankle while they were in Mexico?” He looks toward Ronan for confirmation.

Between bites of a protein bar, he mumbles, “Jamaica, I think.”

Excitement mixes with irritation, and I scrub my hand down my face, “Semantics. I don’t carewherehe was. Is he out for good? Does this mean we can stop the social media shit?”

The handful of guys left in the room laugh. Ronan is the first to reply, “Yeah. No. You’re not getting out of it that easily, my man. Britt is still very much involved, and Dave will be back next season.”

“Great.” Sarcasm is basically my second language.

“Yeah, it is great. She’s here to shoot some content for tryouts.”

“Splendid.”

Ronan and Cally stand, trudging toward the door. I’m the last one left, still lacing my skates.

“Adrian,” Cally calls. “Try to lighten up. Wait till you meet the goalie who came to try out. He’s a beauty.”

I nod, somehow knowing exactly who the goalie is.

As I step onto the ice, I refuse to look into the stands. I know she’s there, pouting, looking miserable, and I’m not going to feed into it at all. I skate a few laps around the ice to warm up, and in no time, I’m sweating and aggression licks at my spine. The current team is in full uniform, making it easy to spot the hopefuls. We call for everyone to line up and deliver the first round of drills. Everyone nods their understanding, and my gaze flicks to the net at the other end of the ice.

It’s empty.

“Where the fuck is the goalie?” I call to Ronan.

He shrugs, leading the first wave of guys through the drill.

Ten minutes later, the goalie steps into the net. The guy is a brick shit house with skates on. His wide frame blocks most of the net, and it’s no surprise he wound up in this position. He barely needs to work to keep the puck out of the crease.

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