Page 187 of Stick It
He shrugs. “I wanted to.”
“You bring us anything?” Finn demands, reaching for the bag.
Jax yanks it back just in time. “Nope. Get your own.”
Finn gapes. “Unbelievable. Not even a single cookie?”
“Nope.”
“Not very team-player behavior,” Finn continues to grouse.
Griffin flashes a wicked grin at him across the table. “Pretty sure these are particular muffin privileges. Maybe if you put out.”
Finn’s nose wrinkles before he retorts. “And yet, I don’t see yourmuffin privileges.”
Still grinning, Griffin flips him his middle finger.
“You idiots canput outall you want,” Jax interjects, pulling out the free seat beside me and dropping into it. “There’s only one person I’m interested in spooning—or being spooned by—and it sure as hell isn’t either of you.”
As if to hammer home his statement, he leans over and presses a kiss to my lips. It’s quick, chaste, but no less tantalizing.
“Fantastic,” Ethan drawls, sounding like an exasperated parent trying to corral wayward children. “Now that we’ve clarified that, can we get back to work?” His gaze slides to mine. “I promised Thorn we’d take her out on the ice when we’re done.”
Fuck yes!
“You heard the captain.” I fix Griffin, Finn, and Jax withmy most serious expression. “If any one of you eat into my ice time with your bullshit, nobody will be spooning anybody.”
“Cold, Hellion,” Finn teases with a cunning grin. “So cold.”
My only response is to glare at him until he goes back to work.
Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, is going to stand in my way of getting back on the ice tonight.
I’m sore in that deep, bone-heavy way that tells me I’ll be paying for this tomorrow, but I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. My chest is burning, my muscles are screaming, and my shoulder is already starting to throb, but none of that matters.
I’m back.
The familiar scrape of my blades against the ice, the sting of cold air on my cheeks, the way the puck snapped against my stick when I finally nailed that pass—all of it has me feeling alive in a way nothing else does.
There’s freedom out here. Control.
And right now, even if just for a second, I feel like myself again.
I coast to a stop at the edge of the rink, stepping off the ice and onto the bench with a groan that’s half laughter, half regret. Dropping onto the seat, I lean back and roll my shoulder out slowly. Yeah. Tomorrow’s going to suck.
A second later, Ethan sinks down beside me and presses a bottle of water and some pain meds into my hand. I take them gratefully and glance over at him.
Griffin, Jax, and Finn are still on the ice, finishing up a drill—quick passes, rapid pivots, laser-focused. My guys. My team.
I take a long sip of water, then glance up toward the wall of the rink. The familiar number stares back at me.
#19. Callahan.
My dad’s jersey, framed beneath the spotlights above the tunnel. My throat tightens. I’ve looked up at that jersey a thousand times, but tonight…it feels different.
Whole.
“He’d be proud of everything you’ve achieved,” Ethan says, his voice low, thoughtful.
