Page 90 of The Overtime Persuasive

And, for the first time in a long time, I’m proud of the woman I’m becoming, too.

CHAPTER 21

LIAM

The Birdcage feels bigger first thing in the morning, when the seats are empty and the scoreboard is dark. Only the lights above the rink are on, leaving the rest of the arena in shadow. Every cut of my blades carries into the stands, along with the crack of the puck off Owen’s pads.

Other than the two of us, the place is silent.

“That’s four,” Owen shouts as he catches my shot against his chest and holds it there.

“Four what?”

“Four shots in the exact same place.” He drops the puck to the ice and nudges it toward me. “We’re practicing consistency? Well, congrats on consistently hitting me in the logo.”

“You’re welcome.”

I circle away while he takes a drink from the bottle balanced on top of the net. We’ve had the practice rink to ourselves for almost half an hour, long enough for Owen to become irritated with every shot I send directly into his body.

I send the next shot high on his blocker side, and he knocks it into the corner.

“Better,” he says.

I mime tipping a hat. “Thank you.”

“I still stopped it, so don’t get cocky.”

“You fill me with hope, then take it all away with a ‘don’t get cocky.’” I spin in a circle in front of him. “Why does your praise feel like a kick between my legs?”

Owen laughs. “That’s what keeps you humble, brother.”

Movement off to the side catches my eye as Tripp steps onto the ice, one hand resting on the top of the boards while he adjusts his helmet. His gaze travels from Owen to me.

“Morning, guys.”

“He’s all yours.” Owen lifts his mask. “I’ve been letting him shoot at me for thirty minutes, and he hasn’t said one interesting thing.”

“I didn’t invite you for a chat,” I say.

“Good, because you’re not getting any more.” Owen skates toward the bench. As he passes Tripp, he taps Tripp’s shoulder with his glove. “Try not to get into a fight today. We need you guys for the game Friday.”

“No promises,” Tripp says.

Owen gives him a look, steps off the ice, and disappears down the tunnel.

Tripp pushes away from the boards. “You told him why you asked me here?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I didn’t tell anyone about it.”

“Should I be worried?”

“I didn’t ask anyone to bring zip ties, a shovel, or help me bury a body, so you’re probably okay.”

“Probably.” He smiles and takes a puck from the pile near the blue line, and for several minutes, we don’t talk.

We work through the same transition we screwed up twice against New York. I retrieve the puck low, Tripp cuts through the neutral zone, and I try to hit him in stride. The first pass lands behind him. The second gets too close to his skates, but he handles both without complaint, which is almost worse than if he gave me hell.

On the third attempt, the puck meets his blade cleanly. Tripp carries it across the line, changes direction, and sends it into the empty net.