Page 30 of Make Me Mean It

I turn towards the entrance as Marcus steps into view with his bag slung over one shoulder, lifting a hand when he spots us.

“Yo,” he calls, dropping his bag beside the gate before leaning over it with his arms folded across the top.

His eyes shift to Connor and his brows pull together, surprise flickering across his face while Connor goes increasingly rigid beside me.

I look from one Reid to the other, feeling like I’ve missed a fairly important piece of information.

Connor has shifted closer to my back, only a few inches, but enough that part of him has disappeared behind my shoulder. I don’t think he even realises he’s done it, too busy staring at the ice.

“You’re early,” I call.

Marcus shrugs, barely looking at me. “How the fuck did you get him on the ice?”

Connor moves again, except this time it’s away from me, pulling my attention from Marcus completely.

His shoulders are rigid, colour climbing steadily along his neck while he concentrates far too hard on keeping his skates still. Nothing like the flush I’ve been enjoying putting there all night.

Marcus is still staring at Connor, and the longer he does, the more Connor seems to draw into himself beside me.

“You know,” I say, keeping my eyes on him. “Blackmail, mild threats, the usual.”

Connor’s head snaps towards me, surprise flashing across his face at the lie, his shoulders loosening just slightly.

Marcus laughs, dragging my attention back to him. “How many times did he eat shit?”

The question earns the smallest flinch from Connor, barely more than a twitch through his shoulders before he rolls his eyes and lifts his chin.

“I was fine.”

I almost snort because he absolutely wasn’t. He nearly went down twice, and the last time would’ve put him flat on his ass if I hadn’t caught him, but the correction dies before I can give it to him.

Connor is watching me, his chin still tipped up, already preparing to argue with whatever comes out of my mouth, except his eyes don’t match the attitude. They stay fixed on mine, waiting, and I get the distinct feeling that proving him wrong in front of Marcus would mean something I don’t understand.

“He did alright.”

Connor blinks, his shoulders dropping. It’s small enough that Marcus probably wouldn’t notice, but I’ve spent the last half hour with my hands on Connor, learning exactly how much tension that deceptively muscular body can hold.

Marcus grins, looking between us, but there’s none of the usual shit-eating edge to it. His whole face has softened, eyes lingering on Connor like seeing him standing out here has made his night.

“And you enjoyed it?” he pushes.

Connor sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets, which would be fine if he wasn’t still standing on skates.

His balance tips, and I bump my shoulder into his, catching the weight before it can take him with it.

Connor jerks away so quickly he nearly sends himself off balance all over again, and it stings more than it has any right to.

“Don’t make it a thing,” Connor mutters, his eyes still fixed stubbornly on the ice, and after the way he just ripped himself out of my reach, I’m not entirely sure which one of us he’s talking to.

Marcus apparently has no problem deciding.

“Would I do that?”

“Marcus,” Connor warns, finally lifting his eyes to his brother while I stay quiet beside him, waiting for even the slightest glance in my direction.

It doesn’t come.

Marcus mimes zipping his lips shut, the grin staying firmly in place as he vaults over the boards and lands cleanly on the ice, barely breaking stride before he pushes towards us.

“You coming back though?”

The question is quieter than everything else Marcus has thrown at him, careful in a way I’m not used to hearing from the guy who spends most of his life yelling across a rink.

“Yeah,” I answer for him.

His head swings towards me. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” I say, holding his stare. “You didn’t.”

His eyes narrow, that stubborn little crease appearing between his brows, and I have to fight the urge to skate straight back over there just to see how much deeper I can make it.

Instead, I push backwards towards the players’ bench.

“You will,” I drawl.

Connor’s glare follows me the whole way.

I fucking love when he does that.