Page 10 of Ruthless Edge

She doesn't see me coming until I bang on it, both hands, right in front of her, which gets a reaction. Her whole face goes through several expressions very quickly; surprise, recognition, something I'd charitably call mortification, and she looks around at the other people in the stands like she's checking whether anyone noticed, which, yes, some of them did notice, I was not subtle.

I grin at her.

She stares at me with an expression that would probably stop most people cold. It doesn't stop me. I think I might be immune to Emma's expressions, or possibly the opposite of immune, which is that every expression she makes is so specifically hers that I want to collect them all.

She mouths something at me through the glass. I'm pretty sure it's "what are you doing," which is fair.

"Carter." Hands on my shoulders now, plural, which means both Ethan and Declan have come to physically remove me from the boards. "Practice. The thing we came here to do."

"She's here," I say.

"I see that," Ethan says, shaking his head. “You Carter triplets need to learn how to keep your eyes on the ice.”

Ignoring him, I say, "she came to the rink."

"Knox." Declan has the voice of a man who grew up as the only sane person in many situations. "Get back in the drill."

I get back in the drill. My brothers, Blake and Noah, are skating circles around me, and I don’t even care. Let them be good at skating today. Tomorrow, I’ll kick their asses.

Today, it’s all about Emma.

I spend the rest of practice with half my attention stuck in the third row of the stands, which is not ideal when you're supposed to be running set plays. I know because Ethan tells me this too many times, which means I'm noticeably bad and not just quietly bad. I try to look like I'm focused on what I'm doing. What I'm actually doing is checking whether Emma is still there every thirty to forty seconds, and also making sure that on the plays where I look good, I look particularly good.

I put a shot on net that I have no business making from that angle. I look up at the stands immediately after.

She's writing in her notebook.

She didn't see it.

I get the puck back and try to find another angle.

"Will you please," Ethan says, skating past me, "stop showing off for the girl in the stands and play hockey."

"I am playing hockey."

"You skated past a completely open lane to take a shot from the worst possible position."

"It was an impressive shot."

Ethan gives me a look. He's been with Sienna long enough that some of her expressions have migrated to his face, and right now he's wearing the patient one that means he thinks I'm being an idiot and he's decided to let me figure it out myself. I appreciate that about Ethan. He's supportive in a very hands-off way.

Practice ends. Coach wraps it up with a few words about the upcoming game that I retain about sixty percent of because the other forty percent of my brain is already calculating how fast I can get to the locker room and get out.

"She came to the rink," I say again, to Ethan.

"You said that already."

"It's still true."

"She's the auction co-chair," he says. "She's probably here to talk about the auction."

"She could've texted."

"She has eight weeks of planning ahead of her, she probably needed to get started⁠—"

"Ethan." I put both hands on his shoulders. He tolerates this. "She came to the rink. That's something."

He looks at me for a second. Then he tries not to smile and almost succeeds. "She told you to go to hell yesterday."