Page 52 of Iced Out Mate

His eyes went wide as I placed his plate down in front of him. “This looks amazing.”

“I hope it tastes amazing, too.”

I sat across from him. He didn’t waste a second, taking a bite of the salad and shaking his head in that universal this shit is good kind of way. “Wow,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on by a salad before.”

I laughed at that and leaned back in my chair. I grabbed the champagne and popped it open. It fizzed over and spilled into the grass. I filled his glass to the top, doing the same with mine. I set the champagne back down and lifted my glass.

“Cheers,” I said. “To many more of these nights.”

His eyes glittered. “Many more.” Our glasses clinked. The champagne tasted crisp and sweet, pairing perfectly with the salad.

“So you’re a gardener, a chef, and an athletic trainer. A triple threat.”

“Wait until you find out that I can sing.”

His jaw dropped. “Show me. Right now.”

I cleared my throat dramatically, tapping a finger against my throat. And then, in my best operatic voice, which sounded more like a yowling cat than a trained singer, I started to belt “Happy Birthday.”

Dyl caught on and quickly cut me off. “Okay, I think we’re keeping it at triple for now.”

More laughter. A sense of ease and comfort enveloped me. I wasn’t exactly known for my playful demeanor, but Dylan brought that out of me. The stoic, stern-faced Miles that always had to be taking care of someone else or rising to some invisible standard was able to relax around Dyl and his goofy, light-hearted ways.

He swirled his glass of champagne and said, “So what got you into athletic training in the first place?”

It wasn’t a heavy question or a complicated one to answer, but it was a bit of a story. I took a sip and rested an arm over the back of my chair. “I’ve always been interested in medicine. Helping people. Science. But it wasn’t until I was in a bad car accident with my dad that sealed it for me.”

“Shit, what happened?” Dylan asked, leaning in.

“Everything’s fine now, obviously.” I didn’t want him worrying right off the bat. The story did have a good ending. “It was senior year and he was driving me to get my cap and gown. Some guy T-boned us. My shifter genes meant that the break in my femur healed by the time the paramedics got to the scene, but my dad is human so he was in way worse condition. Broken ribs, shattered his forearm, had a minor concussion. He was in bad shape, but the doctors and nurses who took care of him were all so incredible—they left a mark on me. That continued when my dad started physical therapy. His therapist was this older lady, big Coke-bottle glasses and always smelled like roses, and she was the key in getting my dad to feel like himself again. She helped him immensely, and I realized that she showed me exactly what I wanted to be.”

“That’s amazing.”

“She was amazing, and my dad thought so too. She was invited to every Christmas party for years after.”

“When did you decide to work with hockey players?”

“In college.” I scratched the back of my neck, suddenly feeling slightly bashful. “I dated a hockey player. He got me into the game. I loved it, and I loved hanging out with the guys. It felt like—well, it felt like a pack before I ever met any other shifters. We clearly didn’t last, but my love of hockey did.”

“And cheers to that,” he said with a laugh, raising his glass.

We clicked our glasses together again, drank, then chuckled. The topic of conversation made me think of something else I’d been wanting to bring up to Dyl. Something I’d been thinking about a lot since I had initially brought it up. “Speaking of the team… I’m going to be talking to Coach about us. I don’t want you to feel like you’re a secret.”

Dylan’s eyebrows rose and his lip twitched into a smile, but he managed to contain most of his pleasant surprise. “Seriously?”

I knew that answering him made things official. I knew that telling Coach would mean there was no coming back. I knew that things could possibly change for better or for worse.

But, most of all, I knew the answer to Dylan’s question.

“Yes, I’m as serious as a dead hangnail.” I winked at him, using a phrase I’d heard him say before. “Or whatever the saying is.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

This Is Going to Hurt

DYLAN

This was the affirmation I needed from Miles. What I’d been craving, almost as badly as I’d been craving his body.