Chapter 27 Eli
TWENTY-SEVEN
ELI
The Lansing locker room smells like old sweat and fresh tape, the kind of mix that clings no matter how many air fresheners the rink staff tries to hang. I’m pulling on my pads when the chirping starts.
“Jesus, Starling,” Todd whistles from two stalls down, “you let a vampire at you or something?”
I glance down at myself, cheeks heating despite the grin tugging at my mouth. The collar of my undershirt doesn’t hide much—not with half a dozen purple-red blotches scattered across my neck.
Peter leans around the corner of the bench, eyebrows climbing. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to fuck before a game? If we lose, it’s on you.”
That gets the whole room going, sticks thudding on the concrete, Daniel laughing loudest. “Bad luck, Starling! You doomed us!”
I throw my arms wide, all innocence. “Relax, gentlemen. You’re welcome. I’ll be sharper than ever between the pipes now. Nothing gets past me.”
“Better hope not,” Todd shoots back. “One soft goal and you’re buying post-game wings for the whole team.”
“Deal,” I say, smirk firmly in place. “Hope you’re all hungry, I know I am, because I’m shutting them down anyway. Then you all are buying the wings.”
The joking jabs keep rolling, but it’s the warm kind—the kind that means they’ll give me shit and then fight tooth and nail beside me.
Still, every time my collar shifts, brushing one of the marks, heat curls through me. Because I know whose mouth put them there. And if that’s bad luck…then maybe I’ve never wanted bad luck so badly.
Daniel’s still howling, wiping at his eyes.
“I’ll buy the wings if you block those goals,” Todd adds, grinning. “But no more fucking before a game, Starling.”
I snort. I’m about to fire back when Max’s voice cuts in from across the room, calm but edged with that gruff authority that shuts guys up fast.
“It’s not factual,” he says, setting a roll of tape on the counter a little harder than necessary. “Sex doesn’t make you play worse. If anything, it can release tension and improve focus.”
Silence for a beat—then Daniel loses it all over again, nearly falling off the bench with how hard he’s laughing.
Todd slaps Peter’s shoulder, both of them snickering. “Since when does the Grinch know about getting laid?”
“Yeah,” Peter piles on, smirking. “That one’s rich.”
Max doesn’t look up from where he’s unrolling tape for one of the guy’s shoulders, but I catch the twitch in his jaw. “I know enough to know it’s not gonna tank his game,” he mutters, clipped.
And damn if his ears don’t go the faintest shade of pink.
Daniel lets out a cackle, head tipping back like he just hit the jackpot. “Ohhh, and how exactly would you know, Calder?”
The room erupts, the guys jeering, whooping, egging it on.
Max finally looks up, green eyes flashing. “I’ve read the studies,” he says flatly, snapping the tape between his hands.
Daniel only grins wider. “Sure, studies. That’s what we’re calling it.”
I bury my grin in my glove because if I laugh out loud, it’s over.
“The Grinch reads sex studies!” Blue howls, slapping Peter’s shoulder like it’s the funniest shit he’s ever heard.
“Secret double life,” Peter adds with mock suspicion. “All broody athletic trainer by day, undercover sex expert by night.”
Max finally looks up, and I know he’s ready to murder the whole team. “Focus on getting dressed, not my reading habits,” he growls.
Daniel just grins like a devil, raising both brows. “Sure, Calder. Whatever you say.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood, trying not to laugh.
Coach claps his hands sharply, cutting through the racket. “Alright, enough! Get your asses on the ice for warm-ups before I make you run a drive drill.”
The guys scatter, still snickering as they grab their sticks and helmets. My pulse is still thundering, but I duck my head, hiding the smile I can’t quite keep down.
Because I know the truth—Max Calder just defended my game like it was his life on the line. I reach down for my helmet, throwing a look at him before I follow my team. He meets my gaze with a warm one of his own.
For half a second, the noise of the locker room fades, and it’s just us. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t frown—just gives me this look, steady and warm, that slides straight under my ribs and stays there.
My throat goes tight. I slam the helmet down over my head before anyone else can notice, before I give myself away.
“Starling, let’s go!” Daniel yells, already halfway to the tunnel.
“Coming!” I call back, head after him, but not before one last glance over my shoulder.
Max is still watching, and when our gazes lock again, the corner of his mouth tips up. Subtle. Barely there. But it’s mine.
The second my blades hit the ice, everything else falls away. The chirping, the teasing, the looks across the locker room—it all burns off in the cold air, replaced by muscle memory and focus.
Pucks start flying during warm-ups, and I’m already dropping low, stretching high, locking into that rhythm only goalies know. Nothing gets past me. Not today.
By the time the game starts, my head’s clear, my chest steady. Lansing pushes hard—shots from the blue line, scrambles in the crease—but every save sharpens me more. Every thud against my pads, every sting against my glove, just feeds the fire.
When the buzzer sounds, the scoreboard glowing in our favor, I don’t let myself grin—yet. Not until Daniel whoops and skates straight for me, helmet slapping against mine. Then Todd’s stick clacks against my pads. Peter throws an arm around my shoulders.
And suddenly I’m surrounded, teammates crowding in, gloves ruffling my hair as my helmet is knocked off, head pats raining down like I’m some golden retriever who did a damn good trick.
I laugh, breathless, chest tight with pride. This—this is why I love the game. The noise, the camaraderie, the weight of the win shared between all of us.
Somewhere beyond the circle, I know Max is watching. And maybe, just maybe, he’s proud too.
The place is loud—every table packed with college kids, the air thick with hot sauce and grease. Our team’s got two long tables shoved together, plates of wings stacked in the middle like some barbaric feast. Everyone’s laughing, still riding the high from the win.
I’m wedged between Daniel and Todd, and Max is directly across from me. Arms folded on the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his usual grumpy expression in place like he ordered it off the menu.
Which means I’ve got the best view in the house.
“Calder,” I say over the din, reaching for another wing. “You should try one of these. Sweet chili. Very festive. Practically Christmas in sauce form.”
His brows draw together. “It’s chicken drowned in sugar.”
“Exactly.” I grin at him, licking sauce from my thumb on purpose. “You might even like it. Brings out the holiday cheer.”
Daniel snorts beside me, catching on instantly. “Careful, Starling. Might melt the ice man.”
Max’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t take the bait—just bites into his own plain hot wing like it insulted him.
I lean forward on my elbows, ignoring the mess on my plate. “What’s the matter, Calder? Afraid sugar’s gonna corrupt you?”
His jaw tightens, and he shoots me that patented Grinch glare that should shut me up. Instead, it just makes me beam harder.
Across the table, Peter’s waving a fry around like a microphone. “Ten bucks says Starling gets him to smile before the night’s over.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Todd adds, already digging out his wallet.
Max mutters something into his plate, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. And I swear to God, I’ve never wanted to win a bet more in my life.
I lean in further, chin propped on my palm, eyes locked on Max like he’s the only one here. “C’mon, Calder. Just one bite. If you don’t like it, I’ll…” I pretend to think, then grin wickedly. “I’ll do suicides on the ice tomorrow until you’re satisfied.”
That gets Daniel choking on his soda. Todd’s howling, already shouting, “Take the deal!” across the table.
Max just sits there, stone-faced, until I wiggle the wing in his direction like I might actually feed it to him. His nostrils flare—and then, to my utter delight, he snorts. Not just a little exhale either, but a real snort, followed by a slow shake of his head.
And there it is. A smile. Small, crooked, but absolutely, definitely a smile.
The table explodes. Peter cackles like he just won the lottery. Daniel’s pounding the table like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all year.
While I sit here soaking it in, my chest buzzes like someone lit me up from the inside.
The table’s buzzing, Peter cheering like he’s just won the lottery. “Told you. Pay up, boys. Starling came through, and I called it.”
Todd groans, sliding a couple bills across the table while Daniel mutters about beginner’s luck.
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “Glad to know I’m worth so much to you guys.”
“Worth losing money over, anyway,” Peter fires back, smug as hell.
I’m about to retort when I feel it.
A light brush against my ankle under the table. Barely there, but enough to short-circuit my brain. My gaze flicks up and—yep. Max. Sitting across from me, his expression is perfectly unreadable except for that subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Then the pressure returns, firmer this time, his foot pressing against mine like he’s daring me to react.
Around us, it’s chaos—Todd gnawing on a wing like he hasn’t eaten in days, Daniel arguing with Peter about “technicalities,” the waitress refilling drinks. But all I can focus on is Max’s foot against mine, steady, grounding, electric.
I push back, just a fraction, grinning into my soda like I’ve got the best secret in the world.
Because I do.