Page 102 of Bleacher Report
"You want me to carry that for you?" she offers, reaching for the strap.
I snort. "It’s fine. I’ve got it on my good side."
But Peyton’s stubborn. She yanks at it anyway—and immediately lets out a surprised "oof!" as the weight nearly topples her forward onto her face.
I laugh, stepping in and yanking the bag back up off the ground.
"Jesus, Collins. You’re going to dislocate something yourself," I tease, slinging it back over my shoulder.
She glares at me, cheeks flushing, but there’s laughter dancing in her eyes too.
"I just watched you have your entire clock rung out on the ice, suffer a dislocation and a low-grade concussion, and you're swinging a thousand-pound bag over your shoulder as if it’s nothing," she mutters. “Are you even human?”
"Nope. I’m a hockey player," I shoot back easily.
She bumps her shoulder lightly against my good arm as we walk toward the exit.
The simple, casual touch nearly undoes me.
Outside, the night air is sharp against my flushed skin.
Peyton shivers slightly, but doesn’t complain.
"What’s on for tonight? Are we headed to Oakley’s?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Nah. I should skip it. Ice this thing, get some sleep. If I want any shot at practicing tomorrow, I can’t be worthless."
Relief flashes across her face so fast I almost miss it.
She’s happy that I’m going home to take care of my shoulder.
She unlocks her car, hesitating.
"Do you want me to drive you home?” she asks.
I shake my head. "Nah. I’m good. Can’t leave my truck here overnight anyway. I won’t have a way to get here in the morning, and Kendall wants to see me early."
She nods, chewing her lip like she wants to say something more but holds it back.
I toss my gear bag into the bed of my truck, grimacing a little as the movement tugs my shoulder.
Peyton’s still standing there, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, watching me.
The temptation to just pull her into my arms and say fuck it—to let whatever this is between us snap free—is harder and harder to ignore.
Instead, I flash her a small, crooked smile.
"I'll see you at home, Collins."
Her face lights up in a way that makes the ache in my shoulder feel like nothing.
"Yeah," she says softly. "See you at home."
The second we step inside the townhouse, Peyton flicks on the entry light and turns to me, hands on her hips like she’s ready for a fight.
"You. Go change into something comfortable, then the couch. Now," she orders. "I’ll get everything."
I smirk, cocking a brow. "Bossy."
