He's Not My Type (The Vancouver Agitators, #4)

by Meghan Quinn

“Doesn’t matter. She’s⁠—” “Halsey!” My name is projected from the hallway, drawing all of our attention toward the locker room entrance. “Halsey!” The scream is shrill, practically at a pitch only dogs can hear. “Halllllllllsey!” “What the fuck is that?” Hornsby asks. “Is that . . . Posey?” Pacey asks just as Posey comes barreling into the locker room, looking slightly disheveled and breathing heavily. “Halsey,” he repeats, this time out of breath. “What the hell is going on?” Hornsby asks before I can. Posey hangs on to the open doorway while his lungs work overtime. “It’s happened.” “What’s happened?” Pacey asks. Posey presses his hands to his knees while bending over. The fucker skates for a living, and he’s out of breath? That doesn’t bode well for our defense. “Fuck, the adrenaline,” he mutters, then stands tall again. Hands on his hips, he says, “The news we’ve been waiting for.” He takes a few steps into the round locker, and with a bizarre expression of glee, he announces, “The time has come.” We all look around at each other, trying to see if anyone understands him. That would be a no. “The time has come for what?” Hornsby asks, his patience wearing thin just like the rest of us. “Stop being a nitwit and fucking tell us,” Silas says, walking up to the group. When did he get here? Posey looks me dead in the eyes with a huge smile and says, “She’s a free woman, man.”