Page 3 of Scoring Lessons

“If that were the case, my life wouldn’t have imploded in the first place,” I muttered under my breath. But that was beside the point.

Kennedy glared at him and smacked his arm. “That’s not funny,” she reprimanded before turning back to me. “Come with us. Please?” Her big, brown eyes met mine with pleading.

“The puppy eyes will never work on me,” I deadpanned.

Her brows furrowed. “Puppy eyes?”

“Yeah.” I waved a hand vaguely in the air. “When you want something, you get this look on your face that makes people feel like saying no would be the equivalent of kicking a puppy.”

My brother snorted a laugh. “Yeah, she does have that look. It’s why she gets away with everything.”

“You are both being ridiculous.” Kennedy crossed her arms and straightened in her seat.

“So…dinner?” He smirked as he stared at me through the rearview mirror, and I knew whatever he was about to say was going to piss me off. “It’s barbecue night…” My stupid brother let the words hang like bait.

Daisy’s ears perked, and she tilted her head.

Goddammit. My brother was a dead man walking.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You had to say the B-word, didn’t you?”

His laugh echoed through the truck. “Daisy, do you want some…chicken?!”

Daisy started wagging her tail and barking like she’d won the lottery.

His grin was triumphant. “Guess you’re coming to team dinner tonight.”

I let out a long, tired sigh as I rested my head against the head restraint. “Great.”

TWO

WESLEY

TO SAVE IT, I’D HAVE TO THINK ABOUT YOU. AND I DON’T.

The sun was brutal and beating down against my sweat-slicked skin as I pushed myself forward. My shoes slapped against the concrete of the Chicago Riverwalk, a steady rhythm that barely kept the panic I’d been harboring at bay. I weaved through tourists and cyclists, dodging strollers and barking dogs, trying to outrun the feeling clawing up my throat.

Always fucking running, trying to beat something that won every single time.

When I finally reached the end of the Riverwalk, I came to a sudden stop.

My legs burned, and each breath I took was filled with the salty, musky air from the river. I yanked off my hat and swiped my cropped T-shirt across my forehead as I tried to calm my breathing.

“Goddamn it, Hayes,” Parker breathed out through a pained groan when he came to a stop in front of me. He leaned forward and rested his hands against his sweaty, tattooed thighs. “When you said you wanted to go for a run, I thought you meant something chill. It’s our last week of vacation.” He heaved between words, like the mere act of speaking out loud pained him as he tried to catch his breath.

“We’re having a barbecue tonight. Gotta earn it,” I replied with an easy smile.

Parker dropped onto one of the benches with another groan. I didn’t know why people considered him to be laid back. Truth was, the guy loved being dramatic.

“Does the word vacation mean nothing to you?”

Levi Parker was the star left defenseman for the Chicago Strikers and one of my closest friends. Anderson might’ve been my childhood best friend (and the man I trusted with my life), but Parker? He understood me, in a sense. We played and wore the same jersey for the Detroit Panthers during our rookie year together. When I got traded, we kept in contact. Then, a year later, he also got traded to the same team.

I shot him a look that said, Are you seriously asking me that dumb of a question?

His eyes rolled in exasperation. “Forget I asked.”

I chuckled. “Smart man.”