Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Hudson

Game Six in Las Vegas had been a nail-biter, with both teams desperately battling for the win. We'd barely squeaked by, beating our rivals two to one and forcing Game Seven on our home ice. We'd kept our hopes alive for winning Round One of the playoffs.

I'd continued my routine of listening to classical music during my pre-game routine, and my performance had improved.

Releasing the sexual tension at home hadn't hurt, either.

But as we played Game Seven at home, my hopes dimmed when the lamp lit behind me. The Vegas fans in the crowd took to their feet, cheering their approval. Shit. I stripped off my glove, raised my mask, and grabbed my water bottle. I squirted a long stream into my parched mouth. Dumping the bottle back onto the net, I geared up and stretched my tense muscles. Shake it off. We still had seventeen minutes left to play in the third period.

But the score stood at three to zero in Vegas's favor. The Blazers' game suffered from missed shots, poor passing, and leaky defense. My teammates carried the weight of the game on their shoulders, but ultimately, a loss became the goalie's stat.

And that goalie was me.

After years of wearing the bulky pads and gear of a goaltender, I fluidly dropped into my stance unhindered. Beck won the puck, and the teams fought up and down the ice. Coach rotated an exhausted second line for the fresher third line, and play entered Vegas's attack zone. Sweat trickled down my back, but I ignored it. My entire focus narrowed on the Vegas player cocking his stick and aiming for the net.

Vegas's Shea Dorn rifled a shot at my six-hole, and I intercepted it with my blocker. The puck ricocheted back into play, and Vegas scrambled for the rebound. Our third line left winger, Matt, dueled for the puck, but Vegas's forward Cody Easton cross-checked him and pushed Matt into another player. Matt crashed to the ice.

His head bounced off the hard surface.

Blood splashed onto the ice, stark red against the white ice.

A hush fell over the crowd.

My gut clenched, and my breath caught in my lungs. The officials blew their whistles and signaled the penalty, hovering over Matt's prostrate form.

He tried to rise, but fell back to the ice. Ray, our head trainer, hustled to his side, leaned down to catch Matt's gaze, and spoke with him. An assistant coach followed, and Beck vaulted over the boards. Concerned teammates surrounded Matt. They removed his helmet, and blood flowed from a head wound.

I couldn't leave the crease, but I itched to. Matt was just a rookie, the kid in the locker room whom we all considered a little brother. An injury like that could be devastating to his career. My stomach churned.

The referee sent Easton to the penalty box for a five-minute major penalty. Angry fans rained debris on the ice. After consultation, the officials called a ten-minute game misconduct, and Easton was out of the game.

Ray and Beck gently helped Matt to his feet, and he wobbled. Beck held a towel to Matt's head, cradled him against his shoulder, and helped him glide off the ice. The fans gave Matt a standing ovation. I glanced into the stands, and even Gramps had gotten to his feet to honor Matt. Whitney clasped her hands to her chest, her expression stricken. My wife had a tender heart.

But anger coursed through my veins. Easton had chased the rebound off my blocker and used it as an excuse for a dirty hit.

Beck returned from the locker room, scowling. He stood at the bench, addressing the team up and down the row. He commanded the attention of his teammates like a general marshaling his forces. Spines stiffened, chins raised, and shoulders squared.

The team craved revenge.

Beck, Chase, Bowen, Luc, and Niklas took to the ice for the first puck drop of the ten-minute power play.

Beck won the puck and scored in seven seconds, before Vegas blinked. The goal horn sounded, piercing through the din of the frenzied fans. My heart tripped a beat. The Blazers were on the board, with the score one to three.

Less than a minute later, Derek found the back of the net. With a score of two to three, the crowd surged to its feet, and hope rose in my chest.

Three minutes after Derek's goal, Beck put the puck through the goalie's five-hole, tying the game.

Less than a minute after that, Cade rifled a shot into the net and pulled ahead, four to three. The audience went wild, and my stomach jumped.

But as a team, we remained stoic. The power play ticked down its final seconds. Over six minutes remained in the period, and anything could happen. We couldn't let our guard down. I remained vigilant, and our offense pushed their limits.

With fifty seconds to play in the game, Vegas's Dorn intercepted a pass, lined up his shot, and slapped it past my right shoulder. He tied the game four to four.

Fuck. That one was on me. I slammed my glove on the top of the net, snagged my water bottle, and squirted my sweaty face with the cool liquid. I took a few deep breaths to center myself and resumed my position.

The game ended in a tie and went to three on three, sudden-death overtime. The arena crackled with lightning and thundered with the din of anticipation.

The puck dropped, and one minute later, Bowen blasted the puck into the top left-hand corner of the net, winning the game.

We'd come from behind—in the series and in the game—to win the first round of the playoffs.

My heart pummeled my chest and I could barely breathe. Teammates exploded off the bench and onto the ice in celebration, arms, legs, and sticks raised. Bowen disappeared under a dog pile. My fellow players thumped my helmet in congratulations. The goal horn sounded repeatedly, fighting for dominance with the pumping bass of a rock song throbbing through my chest. We lined up and shook hands with our rivals.

I lifted my gaze to the stands and zeroed in on the comp seats. Gramps tapped his cane to the beat, and I grinned. Whitney jumped up and down, waving at me with both arms. I raised my stick in salute, warmth spreading through my veins. She blew a kiss, and I swore the heat of it landed on my cheek.

"Scrimmage's!" Beck called. "Drinks are on me!"

But Whitney had put a different kind of festivity into my mind. One that involved real kisses, just the two of us, and a king-size bed. It was the perfect way to celebrate winning our division. I sent her a text to meet me at home.

While experimental sex positions were fun and scorching hot, I craved the intimacy we shared, the affection. When had that become more important than the physical act?

Shit. Despite my caution, I was falling in love with my wife.

My veins still buzzing from our win, I let myself into our dim apartment with a fumbling hand. The soft glow of a single lamp in the bedroom welcomed me. Mr. Darcy padded over, weaved between my ankles, and purred in greeting. I reached down and ran a hand along his fluffy fur. The sound of water pattering against tiled walls drifted from the bathroom, accompanied by a gentle humming. I cocked an ear, and a grin broke across my face. Whitney hummed the Blazers' theme song.

I dumped the contents of my pockets onto the kitchen counter, and then I strode into our bedroom. "I'm ho-ome!"

The humming and water cut off. "Be right out!"

I stepped into our walk-in closet and stripped to my boxer briefs. I didn't bother with a pair of sleep pants—I had plans, and I hoped Whitney was on board. I left the closet as she exited the bathroom in a cloud of lavender. Curly tendrils of hair fell to her bare shoulders, and a knotted towel hugged her full breasts and draped over trim hips to her upper thighs. Steam fogged her glasses .

My breath hitched, and my cock thickened and lengthened.

Her hazy gaze traced over my body. A mischievous glint sparkled in her eyes as she asked huskily, "Want to celebrate?"

"Hell, yeah," I rasped.

She unfastened her towel, and it dropped in a heap at her feet.

I sucked in a breath and held out my hand. She placed her hand in mine and I drew her to me, enfolding her in my arms, where she fit against my tripping heart. I captured her mouth. She opened for me, I deepened the kiss, and her velvet tongue slipped against mine. Her minty taste flooded my senses, and our tongues twirled and teased. My desire for Whitney—and only Whitney—slammed into me like a slapshot, nearly sending me to my knees. I gasped and broke the kiss.

Her brows knit together. "Are you okay?"

"Never better," I answered honestly. With each passing day, she had snuggled her way next to my heart with her kindness, humor, and unwavering affection.

Taking her hand once again, I led her toward the bed, where we stood at the edge. She raised her hands to remove her glasses. "Keep them on," I murmured. "I want you to look into my eyes while I make—" I cleared my throat. "Make you come."

Her mouth spread in a slow, soft smile, and her gaze locked with mine. In a husky tone, she whispered, "Make…me come, Hudson."

She drew back the covers and stretched out on the bed, her arms open and welcoming. "I'm already… ready for you." A becoming blush spread from her chest to her cheeks. "I wanted you tonight, win or lose. Don't make me wait." Her eyes danced with desire as she gazed up at me.

I couldn't strip fast enough. I freed my aching cock and stepped out of my briefs, anticipation fluttering in my chest. She made room, and I kneeled between her legs, hardly daring to believe that this beautiful, sexy, smart, kind woman was my wife. I'd slapped a direct shot into the net when I married Whitney.

Holding her gaze, I traced my fingers slowly from her shoulders, over the mounds of her firm breasts, past the swell of her belly, and to her curls. Goosebumps raised in their wake, and she shivered. "Cold?"

"No," she said, breathless. "I'm… burning ." She arched her back. "More. Please ."

I cupped her breasts with my hands, the mounds heavy in my palms, and flicked the nipples with my thumbs. Back and forth. Back and forth. I might as well have been stroking my cock, because I grew even harder as I touched her. Her moan mixed with mine.

" More ," she whispered, undulating.

I moved one hand to her slit and covered her there. "May I?"

"I'm begging you."

I carefully slipped my middle finger into her slick heat, and her breath hitched in pleasure. Teasing her nub with my thumb, I fucked her with my finger.

"Oh! Oh!" she panted as her hips bucked against me. Then she cried out as her walls pulsed and clenched.

Yes. Satisfaction surged through me.

I quickly grabbed a condom from the nightstand and rolled it on. Without giving her a chance to catch her breath, I nudged her entrance. "Do you want me?"

In answer, she wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. She peered at me through hooded eyes dazed from the remnants of her orgasm.

"Eyes on mine, baby."

She focused on my eyes, and our connection snapped into place. I slowly entered her warm, tight core while maintaining eye contact, elevating the intimacy to heights we'd never reached before. Once fully seated, I asked, "Okay?" Sweat beaded on my brow from holding back.

She nodded and rotated her hips.

Oh, fuck. My cock swelled. I wanted to roll my eyes into the back of my head, but I held onto the intense eye contact in order to see every bit of her reaction.

I slid out partway, then set up a slow and steady rhythm. Every stroke was deliberate, with the sole intention of bringing her pleasure.

Her pupils dilated, and she clutched my shoulders, digging her nails into my muscles. Spurring me on. Her breathing became heavy, and I could tell she was close.

Thank God, because I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on. With renewed determination, I picked up the pace and pressed her sensitive nub with my thumb. The response was immediate. Her eyes widened, and she called out my name. She clamped down on my cock as she came apart. Satisfaction ripped through me. Lightning shot down my spine, and I planted myself deep and shuddered as my orgasm tore through me.

I collapsed to my elbows, careful not to crush her with my weight, and captured her mouth in a deep kiss that swelled my chest with an emotion I refused to name.

Because I'd just made love to my wife.