“Am I allowed to take a picture?” I beg the cop.

“Don’t you dare,” Demi warns.

He grins. “Go for it.” I think this is the most fun he’s had in a while. Riding a desk is probably boring as fuck.

I fish my phone from my pocket and snap a picture of Demi, who looks like she wants to murder me. Then, to rub salt in the wound, I turn around to take a selfie, with Demi’s outraged face in the background, her fingers curled around the bars.

“That’s my Christmas card, right there,” I tell her, giving a finger gun.

“I hate you.”

No you don’t, you want to blow me.

I can’t stop the wicked thought. And I can’t quite fathom it, either. Was she actually serious about wanting me to be her rebound? She’s so sarcastic that I assumed she was messing with me.

Maybe it’s a good thing I was in the dark about it. Hell, it’d probably be better if I still was. I promised myself I wouldn’t hook up this year, and the temptation to break that vow for Demi is overwhelming.

The deputy leads me over to his desk and points to the landline.

“Can’t I use my own phone?” I hold it up in reminder. I mean, he literally just allowed me to take a picture.

He shakes his head. “Against protocol.”

“Okay, well, that doesn’t make any sense, but whatever.” I shrug and grab the handset off its cradle. Then I dial one of the few numbers I know by heart.

“Hey Coach,” I say after his brusque hello.

“Davenport?” he asks suspiciously.

“Yeah. I hope I didn’t wake you.” The digital clock across the room reads 10:37. Not crazy late, but we have a six-thirty a.m. morning skate, so there’s a chance he was already in bed.

“What’s going on?” he barks in my ear.

“Not much.” I stall, wondering the best way to frame my predicament.

“Is this about the fucking egg?” Coach sounds annoyed. “Did something happen to it?”

“Nah, Pablo’s good, thanks for asking. Well, at least I think he’s good—he’s with Conor tonight, so…yeah…anyway…” I exhale. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to Band-Aid it. I’m in jail right now and I’m hoping you might be able to come here and talk to the officers and, you know, do your thing?”

“My thing?”

“Yelling at people,” I clarify.

There’s a brief silence, followed by, “Is this a prank? Because I don’t have time for that shit.”

I swallow a laugh. “I’m dead serious. A friend and I got pulled over in Hastings tonight. It was a total misunderstanding—we weren’t drunk and there was no lewd behavior despite what Officer Jerk might say—”

The desk cop chuckles softly. Man, I wish he was the one who pulled us over. He probably would’ve high-fived me and let us go.

“Coach?” I prompt.

Another silence trickles by.

“I’m on my way.”

22

Hunter

“Where is he?” Demi asks impatiently. “I thought you said he lived ten minutes away.”

“He does. And it’s literally only been one minute since I called.” Rolling my eyes, I rejoin her on the uncomfortable metal bench. Our cellmate remains fast asleep, now snoring softly. His foot keeps twitching, and there’s no mistaking the odor of stale booze that wafts our way.

Demi presses her lips together, as if trying not to laugh. “This is the best date I’ve ever been on,” she says sarcastically. “I mean, the romantic ambience alone…”

A snort slips out. “Only thing missing is the Whitney Houston ballad. Oh, and your actual date—you know, the dude who ditched you for his girlfriend. Or maybe the gym. I honestly can’t be sure. It was such an impossible choice.”

It’s her turn to snort. “Meh. Whatever. You’re a way better date.”

Grinning, I sling one arm around her and tug her closer, and she rests her head on my shoulder. The sweet scent of her hair floats up into my nostrils. I breathe deeply, trying to pinpoint the scent. Jasmine, I think. She feels nice and warm pressed up beside me. I wonder what she’s thinking about right now. If her thoughts align with mine.

I almost groan in disappointment when she lifts her head. “I really mean it,” she informs me.

“Mean what?” Shit, my voice sounds way too husky. I promptly clear the gravel from my throat.

“You’re a fun date.”

“This isn’t a date.”

She tips her head in challenge. “Then why are you giving me the Penis Eyes?”

“I’m not.”

“I know Penis Eyes when I see ’em.”

A laugh tickles my throat. This girl is something else. She cracks me up. And she’s so fucking beautiful. Her skin always looks so soft and luminous that my fingers itch to stroke it. Her hair looks silky to the touch too. It falls in a straight, shiny curtain over her shoulder, the one that’s bared by her loose sweater. A few dark strands fall over her left eye.

My lips feel dry. I lick them, and heat flares in Demi’s expression.

“You’ve got hair in your eyes,” I say roughly.

I reach out to gently brush it away. My thumb lingers on her cheekbone as I tuck the hair behind her ear, the one that’s normal-sized.

She gives a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my God. Was that it?”

My eyebrows crash together. “Was what it?”

“Was that your move?” Delight dances in her eyes. “Licking the lips, brushing hair off my face, that little thumb rub. That’s totally the move. Right?”

I flash a cocky smile. “Depends. Did it work?”

“Yes,” she says frankly, and now it’s my breath that hitches.

Her honesty is such a turn-on. And although I didn’t plan on busting it out tonight, that was my move. It just happened naturally.

“Davenport,” booms a loud voice.

My head snaps toward the bars. Footsteps thud down a hallway and then Coach’s thunderous face appears in the doorway. Officer Jenk tails him.

“Unlock that door.” Coach issues the order to the desk jockey, who jumps to his feet at the arrival of Coach and his colleague.

Weirdly enough, the younger deputy actually reaches for his heavy key ring before remembering that Coach is not his superior, nor a cop. “Jeff?” he says, glancing at Officer Jenk.

His name is Jeff? Jeff Jenk?

Poor bastard. Maybe that’s why he’s in such a bad mood.

“Do it,” Jenk says curtly.

Coach gives me and Demi a brisk once-over as we emerge from the cell. “You all right?” he says curtly. “Did anybody manhandle you?”

“No,” I assure him, touched that he’d asked. “Nobody knocked us around at all, but thanks for worrying.”

“I’m not worried about you, you idiot. I’m worried about your fucking shooting hand. We have a game in four days.” His accusatory eyes shift toward the officers. “If his slapshot is even a tenth of a second slower than usual, I’m going to hold you personally responsible, Albertson.”