Page 46 of Crease Collision

“Why?”

Nico is the only person who knows enough to understand. At camp, I’d told him I hadn’t seen Oskar since August and wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again.

“Oskar is their new goalie.”

“Oskar?” His eyes go wide. “Wait. Oskar from the summer?”

“I’m going to see him.”

“To say what?”

“Like I fucking know.”

I push around him and ignore the sound of my name as the door closes behind me.

On the road, the visitors’ hallway always feels deserted after games. Instead of fans and families behind a rope like at home, there’s only a scattering of security officers and media people. The reporters call out as I hurry by, and I ignore them.

I know where the Fury’s locker room is because I played in the All-Star game here last year. A guard in front of their door straightens when he sees me coming.

“Can I help you?”

“I need Oskar Olofsson.”

The guard blinks. It’s probably not what he expected from me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mercer, but the players are still unavailable.”

“Tell him I’m waiting.”

The guard hesitates, but I stare him down. Reluctantly, he turns and disappears through the door. My pulse is pounding in my ears, but I try to rehearse what I’ll say when Oskar comes out.

Eventually, the guard comes back. “Mr. Olofsson just got out of the shower. He’ll be here in a moment.”

I rock on my feet while I wait. Where the hell’s a fidget ball when I need one?

The door opens, and the world goes into slow-mo as Oskar steps into the hallway. Thor in a Fury hoodie and sweats.

My heart does a dangerous somersault. His hair is wet from the shower, curling exactly the way I remember from the summer.

Everything goes still when his eyes find mine. I can’t move. I sure as hell can’t talk.

“Kai,” he says, then steps forward and puts a hand on my elbow. “Come on.”

As I let him guide me away, my mind spins from the thrill of him touching me again. Where are we going?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

OSKAR

The moment I step into the hallway, Kai’s eyes flash with something dangerous. It disappears as quickly as it came, and the emptiness that follows is worse.

“Come on,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. Whatever this is, I can’t let it happen out here.

He lets me take his elbow, which scares me more than the anger. His muscles are stiff as I guide him to one of the small meeting rooms the coaches use.

As soon as I close the door behind us, he jerks his arm away. “You’re a hockey player? A fucking goalie?”

The room is cramped, barely big enough for a table and four chairs. Fluorescent lights buzz to life as I pull out a chair for him. “Sit.”