Page 83 of Rookie Attraction

I get up and circulate, moving to sit at the opposite end of the table. It doesn’t help because the longer Finn and Karson talk and laugh, the more irritated I become. For the first time ever, I’m envious of my baby brother.

It’s stupid, but there it is.

Makela sits on my right and is well into scarfing down his second steak when he taps my hand with the tip of his knife.

“Um, careful. I need my hand tomorrow,” I offer.

“Are you going to finish your ribeye?” Makela asks.

“Eventually.”

I haven’t got much appetite. For food.

“You need to fill up. We will kick Karson’s smug ass, and hard. I will not be happy unless I see his pain.”

“Then why don’t you poke him with your knife and not me?”

Makela glances down the table and shrugs.

“Maybe during dessert.”

I shake my head.

“Jealous of his success?”

“Me? No fucking way,” he scoffs. “I’m a better player, a better person. In every way.”

This guy’s ego…

“His stats speak for themselves,” I counter.

“Not this year. Things will change. You will see.”

I hear the familiar rumble of Finn’s laughter across the room, and my eyes can’t help but track him. When those twin dimples of his make an appearance, it takes every ounce of my control to stay in my seat. My frustration doesn’t last long, though, because Sorensen launches a roll across the table, and it smacks me in the forehead.

“The fuck?” I blurt out and lob the roll back at the goalie.

“Sorry,” Sorensen offers with a cheeky grin. “I was aiming for Makela.”

“It’s clear why you’re in net; you can’t aim for shit,” I quip.

Sorensen grabs another roll, but Berg gives him a look.

“Boys, come on, show a little respect for where we are.”

“Yeah!” Karson calls out. “Save the dirty moves for the real game.”

“You’d know all about that, KitKat,” Makela snarks.

“KitKat?” Sorensen interrupts. “I thought your nickname was Whiplash?”

Karson lets out a grin.

“It is, in the NHL. At the Olympics, however, I got the name KitKat. There was a photo of me before the final, eating a chocolate bar. Someone in the press found it amusing and insisted I give it credit for the win.”

“Is true about the chocolate,” Makela grumbles.

“Fuck off, Bronze Medal.” Karson offers him two middle fingers. “At least KitKat is better than Mercury.”