Page 16 of On the Breakaway

“Just get in the car,” I say again, softer this time but no less firm. “Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and do it myself.”

Her eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Her feet stay firmly planted on the asphalt while she decides how argumentative she feels. Knowing her, she’s just getting started.

Finally, she exhales sharply. “This doesn’t mean you won,” she mutters, brushing past me toward my car.

Arguing in a grocery store parking lot with a woman who seems determined to be as difficult as possible shouldn’t have my skin heating like this. I remind myself of this over and over while I circle the car and climb in.

It’s just the months of celibacy talking.

The drive starts with painful silence. Annoyance is radiating off her from the passenger seat. Her arms are crossed, and her body is angled toward the window, but she does manage to huff out directions. I force my eyes to stay on the road when every part of me wants to see if her brows are still furrowed like this is all some sort of trick. After a while, I finally speak up, desperate to break the tension.

“When does your team start up for the season?”

She still doesn’t look at me. “We’ve kept up with light practices for our scrimmages in the off-season, but we’ll start up heavier next month. Our first game will be the Cup since we were last year’s champs. That’s in mid-February.”

It’s the most she’s ever said to me in one go.

“What’s the difference between light practices and in-season practices?” I’m scrounging for any question I can think of to ask, but I’m also genuinely curious about how her team works.

“Right now, we’re focused mostly on mechanics, technique, and sometimes conditioning. We’ll start up more of the contact stuff when we’ve got real games on the line.”

“That’s how it works for us, too.”

I glance over again, catching the way her jaw tightens slightly, like she’s trying very hard not to engage with me more than necessary.

“Does your coach also put you through a hell week?” I continue, turning when she tells me to. “A week where we all have to pretend getting up before the sun and voluntarily being beaten to hell somehow makes us better at hockey?”

Her lips twitch barely enough to be noticeable.

“Are you smiling because you relate?” I glance more openly in her direction. “Or because the idea of me being slammed into the boards is amusing to you?”

She snorts, the sound quick and unguarded, and it throws me off more than anything she’s said since I bumped into her. I’ve heard Avery laugh from a distance or with someone else, but hearing her laugh now, when it’s just us, is different.

I grin, one brow lifting. “Was that a laugh?”

Her glowering expression snaps back into place, as if it never left. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Noted. I just wanted to acknowledge that you’re capable of laughing in my presence. Big moment for me.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s less bite behind it now. “Congratulations. You want a trophy?”

“Yeah, actually. Something small. Maybe engraved.”

“Of course you do.”

Because I like to ruin things, I ask, “What was that back there?”

Her shoulders stiffen. “Nothing.”

I debate letting it go, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “You got mad at me for trying to pay for groceries.”

“I didn’t get mad.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what I did wrong.”