Page 4 of Offside Rules
Rooks scratches the back of his neck.
"You didn't know this was Wolf's place?"
"Would I be standing in it if I did?"
"No. Probably not."
Rooks was there the night I waited for Wolf in that college parking lot—Ellie too. I was a sophomore. Rooks, Beau, and Wolf were seniors, and Beau’s shot at the NHL had just gone from a real possibility to something the doctors weren’t sure he’d ever get back. My parents went with him to the hospital. I had the keys to the family car, Ellie to my left trying to pull me to the car, but I couldn’t make myself leave until Wolf came out. I started yelling at him the moment I saw him in his warm-up gear, a duffel bag over his shoulder.
He stood there and let me. Those blue eyes stayed on mine while I called him everything I could think of–told him he was an asshole on skates. Rain soaked through his hoodie and sweats, and I kept yelling until Rooks came out.
Rooks stopped when he saw us—me, Ellie, and Wolf, drenched. I yelled until my voice went hoarse. Then he hurried over, put his rain jacket around me, took the keys from my hand, and nodded at Ellie to follow us. "Come on, girls. I’ll drive you to the hospital."
The front door opens behind me. Rooks looks over my shoulder.
"Rooks, what the hell is going on here?"
I recognize the voice before I turn. I’ve heard it plenty of times on sports highlights and post-game interviews over the last six years. Everyone loves a clip of Wolfgang Ziegler putting someone into the boards or giving a smart-ass answer to a reporter. One segment called him the meanest defender in the league, then spent three minutes going through his career penalties.
Wolf stands in the doorway, looking past me at the people packed into his living room. Six-foot-five, broad shoulders, a gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing tattooed forearms. The man could probably carry a commercial refrigerator into my future shop without asking anyone to take the other end. The thought of watching him do it shouldn’t make my ovaries tingle, but dammit, it does.
I hate that I notice any of this before I remember how much I can’t stand him. His eyebrows pull together when he sees Rooks.
"You said a few people."
"I only invited a few people," Rooks says.
Wolf looks around the room. "Then how many did they invite?"
I would like the answer to that myself.
"I stayed to help clean up at Oakley's because you said you had this handled," Wolf says. "Why is my apartment packed?"
Rooks opens his mouth, then shuts it. Apparently, he can count after all.
Wolf walks past us to the speakers in the living room and turns the music down himself. Someone on the couch objects, but one look from him ends the complaint. Finally, I can hear myself think again.
When he comes back, his attention settles on me.
It’s the first time we’ve stood face-to-face since that night in the college parking lot. Seeing him on a screen isn’t the same. On a screen, I can turn him off.
His gaze pauses on the gold patches under my eyes.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
Rooks jumps in. "Wolf, it’s Baylor Fairbanks. Beau’s little sister. You remember Baylor, right?"
I lift my chin and wait.
"How could I forget?" His gaze moves over my outfit, and now I wish I’d changed. Not into a short miniskirt like half the puck bunnies here, but at least out of my slippers and under-eye masks. Now that I know whose apartment this is, the number of pretty women makes a lot more sense. They were probably at Oakley’s after the game. The Hawkeyes won tonight, and this city makes sure everyone knows when that happens.
"You’re wearing a rival team’s sweatshirt in my apartment," he says.
That’s what he has to say to me? My sweatshirt is the problem? My brother spent six years recovering from that hit, but sure, Wolf. Let’s talk about the logo on my chest.
"I didn’t know it was your apartment. And besides, my brother plays for them. Which I’m sure you already know."
"That’s right. Beau got signed this year. Congratulations." His gaze lifts from the Blue Devils logo to my face. "How’s your family?"
