Him (Him #1)(69)

I narrow my eyes. “Bullsh—uh, bullcrap. Are you forgetting who won the last one?”

I have to give Wes credit—he doesn’t even blink this time, even though we both know he’s remembering the outcome of that last shootout.

The boys snicker. “Rematch,” Brighton blurts out.

Bradowski’s eyes light up. “Shit! Yes!”

Wes and I exchange a look. We should really be hustling the kids into the showers so they’re not late for dinner, but the boys aren’t having it. Bradowski and Brighton are already whizzing away, calling out to the teenagers who haven’t made it to the tunnel yet.

“Coach Canning and Coach Wesley are having a shootout!”

Well, then. I guess it’s time for a shootout.

Wes winks at me and says, “Same stakes?”

“Damn straight.”

We both grin at my choice of words.

Ten minutes later, we’re suited up and getting in position. Our audience has grown—even the coaches are gathered around the boards, Pat included. I’m wearing full pads, because no way am I leaving myself unprotected while Toronto’s new forward fires bullets at me.

Wes shows off his flashy moves as he skates toward the blue line, then stops and looks right at me. The wicked gleam in his eyes makes my pulse race. I can practically hear his unspoken taunt—get ready to suck my dick, Canning.

I take a breath and tap my stick against the ice. A whistle blows, and then Wes comes barreling toward me. One lightning-fast slapshot, and a loud cheer echoes in the rink. Goal.

Shit. He’s not pulling any punches today. I brush it off and focus, defending against his next two shots and drawing my own cheers from the crowd.

Wes grins at me as he lines up the next puck. “Ready for this?”

The * has just repeated the same words he’d said to me last night right before he’d shoved his cock in my ass. All about the mind games, my boyfriend.

Wait, what?

The puck flies past me and I don’t even stand a chance, because my brain is still tripping over that last thought.

My boyfriend? I thought I’d resigned myself to the fact that we weren’t going to be together. And now I’m thinking of him as my boyfriend?

I shrug the cobwebs from my head and force myself to concentrate on defending the net. When my glove swallows up the last puck, I breathe in relief. I only let in two. Which means I need to score on him twice to tie, three for the win. Considering he’s nowhere near as good as me in the crease, I can already taste the victory.

But he looks way too comfortable in front of that net. His gray eyes mock me behind the mask, and when he calls out, “Show me what you’ve got,” there’s laughter in his voice.

Cocky bastard thinks he can actually stop me.

Fuck. The cocky bastard does stop me. My first shot lands in his glove.

I grit my teeth and try to deke him out with the second attempt, but his hawk-like gaze isn’t fooled. He stops this one with his pads, the next one with his stick. Shit. I need to sink the next two to tie.

The kids whoop in delight when my fourth attempt proves fruitful. It flies past Wes’s shoulder and hits the net.

“Last shot,” he says in a singsong voice. “You’re totally gonna blow it, Canning!”

I know exactly what kind of blowing he’s talking about.

Brighton gets a drum roll going by tapping his hands on the boards, and the other kids quickly follow suit. The beat matches the steady thumping of my heart. I take a breath, then skate forward. I pull my arm back, assess, and release a slapshot.

The puck hisses in the air.

I miss.

The kids go nuts as Wes leaves the net and skates up and down the boards to accept their high fives. I watch him in suspicion, wondering when he’d gotten so good at defending against the puck. Four years ago he’d been totally inept.

Shrugging the thought away, I accept my condolences from my goalies, who actually look kinda pleased I lost. I guess it made them realize even the best goaltenders suck sometimes.

As the kids file toward the locker rooms, Wes skates his way over to me and raises one eyebrow. “You’re either slacking on your shooting drills, or you let me win that.”

“Didn’t let you win,” I say through clenched teeth. Except then a thought occurs to me. That last shootout before college… had he let me win? Because the guy I saw in the net today was not the one I saw there four years ago…

I’m about to ask him point-blank when Pat interrupts us. “Canning,” he says, appearing near the bench. “A word.”

Wes claps a hand over my shoulder. “I’ll see you in the dining hall.”

We skate off in opposite directions, but Pat doesn’t speak until Wes is well out of earshot.

“I got a call from a friend in Toronto this morning.” As usual, Pat gets right to the point.

I tense up. “About the possibility of me coaching?”

He nods. “My buddy’s name is Rodney Davenport. He’s with the OHL, coaches one of the Junior A teams in the league. He’s in Ottawa, but he’s tight with the head coach of the Toronto team—Bill Braddock. He spoke to Braddock on your behalf.”

Surprise jolts through me. “He did?”

“I told Davenport all about you. Vouched for you.” Pat shrugs. “You’ve got an interview in Toronto on the twenty-eighth.”