Page 128 of Lose You Twice

Before that, I’m already failing in slightly less obvious ways.

Like during warm-ups, when he skates by the boards and taps two gloved fingers against the glass right where I’m standing. Then Weston sees it and nearly trips over the blue line because he’s too busy wagging his eyebrows at me.

When Kai comes off after the first period, breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the ice, and asks, “You good?”

“I feel like I should be the one asking you that.” I level him with the best glare I can muster at the moment. “You’re annoying.”

He smiles at that. “Still not an answer.”

Thankfully, Coach calls his name, and he’s gone before I can decide whether to throw a towel at him or kiss him until neither of us remembers what sport he plays.

PCU wins again.

Barely.

2–1, with Asher saving the entire team from a loss in overtime, and Weston’s last-second goal sealing the deal. The locker room is loud afterward, but not as wild as last week. Coleson is quiet, but his expression lets everyone know he’s more than pissed. He rode the bench the first period on his captain’s recommendation, according to Weston.

“Completely unrelated to him disrespecting you,” he says.

“Weston.”

“Totally separate. Nothing to do with him being a monumental ass.”

Asher, passing behind him, says, “Subtle.”

I laugh because I can’t help it.

Grayson gives me a nod when he passes as Weston keeps up a constant stream of nonsense about victory snacks, and the importance of clean socks and remembering to actually put them in your bag.

Kai barely says anything to me.

That should help, but it doesn’t. He’s traded words I can hear for looks I can feel, everywhere.

Every time my gaze catches his, I swear the room heats a few more degrees.

By the time the locker room clears, my skin feels too tight.

Donnelly sends me home early, which is a much-needed reprieve for the day. I grab my bag from the equipment room, shove my keys into the front pocket, and make it all the way to my car before I realize my phone is missing.

“Well shit,” I mumble, digging through it again.

Notebook, wallet, multiple ChapStick tubes, a million hair ties, one of the twins’ socks, a granola bar from Kai, because apparently I’m collecting emotional support snacks now.

No phone.

I groan. “Of course.”

The rink is mostly empty when I go back inside. The hallway lights have dimmed to their after-hours glow. My footsteps echo on the concrete.

The locker room should be empty by now, which is the last place I remember checking my phone to make sure everyone at home was good and on schedule.

I see Coach heading out with two assistants. Kai’s truck is still outside, but he has a habit of staying late for film, stretching, captain things, or whatever responsible activity he can find.

I push open the locker room door.

“Hello?” I call, because I’m not an idiot and walking silently into a men’s locker room is how people end up dead, embarrassed, or both.

No answer.