Chapter 25

Sitting in the penalty box and trying to get a glimpse of Rory up in the owner's box high overhead hadn't been my plan.

But waking up and spending a full day and a half fucking her every way imaginable also hadn't been on the docket either.

"Who are you looking for?" Pat says from next to me. "I saw some hot pussy in section one-oh-two, but I'm not sharing."

Right.

Because that's the extra layer of joy to this game tonight.

Sitting in the box next to Pat.

He'd taken a cheap shot on a guy on the other team—a player who's as much of an asshole as Pat is so I couldn't give him too much shit for that. But a couple of the guys on the other team hadn't appreciated that gesture much and I—as a halfway decent teammate who knows that Pat's an asshole but still plays an important role on the ice—had stepped in to make sure he didn't get pummeled when he went full turtle on the ice.

For all his talk of pussy…

Pat was sure a dick. Or maybe a ball sack.

Vulnerable to the smallest bit of contact.

"Or maybe," he drawls and I grind my teeth together, "you're looking for a certain woman who you're fucking."

My head whips away from the stands, glare fixing on him in an instant.

Too fast. Revealing too much.

As made evident by the asshole's smirk. "Yeah," he says. "I knew you'd get in there."

"Fuck off, Pat," I mutter, gaze turning to the Jumbotron, counting the seconds until I can get the fuck out of here. Five minute penalty for fighting. Five minutes too long to sit next to this asshole.

Then, to add to my misery, it's not strictly just five minutes. I have to wait for my time to count down, but then I also have to wait for a whistle before I'm allowed to leave the Naughty Box.

"For someone who's getting his dick wet, you're sure in a bad mood," Pat says gleefully.

As gleefully as I'd put my fist right through his face.

Christ.

I need to get out of here.

"Do you ever get tired of being an asshole?" I grind out.

"Nope," he says as the whistle blows and he stands up.

I flick my eyes to the clock, see that the hockey gods have been nice enough to grant me freedom from this box of hell, and jerk to my feet, reaching for the handle and yanking open the door—and doing it so quickly that the metal edge slams into Pat's shoulder.

Ha.

Fucker.

He grunts, but I don't apologize, just hop onto the ice, skate to the bench, and sink down beside Rome. My captain glances over at me. "How was that?"

Cam—on my other side—snorts. "Five minutes of hell."

That.

Exactly that, but?—

"Doesn't matter," I mutter. I nod out to the ice. "We're down a goal and not much time is left in the game. We've got to get our shit together."

Rome nods in agreement, but he's already looking at Cam. The youngest brother of the Jackson siblings sighs, screwing up his mouth, and I know he's thinking. His—the Jackson brood—isn't a family of hockey players like mine is, but they're still obscurely famous for being connected to their adopted sister and Hollywood superstar, Sophie Jackson. Cam may be the youngest and on the quiet side, but the kid's got a great mind.

He can draw up plays that are effective and creative, and he can do it fast.

Case in point?

Taking the next fifteen seconds before we hop onto the ice to toss three ideas our way.

One of which means that I'm cutting to the right when the puck ricochets off the boards and between the skates of a defenseman on the other team.

It means that I'm already skating balls out past him before he can react.

It means that I beat everyone to the corner, scooping up the puck and cutting hard to the net.

The other team is closing fast, and their goalie knows exactly where I am, gaze locked on me, squeezing that post, cutting off any decent angle for a shot.

Which is fine.

Because I have no plans on shooting.

Just faking one.

Which I do, watching the goalie react, flinch, bracing for the puck.

But I'm already dropping it back…

To Rome streaking in.

He doesn't pick it up, just lets it slip by as he skates hard at the net, distracting the goalie as…

Cam receives the puck, flicks it back to me…

I shoot…

It sails into the top corner of the goal, sending the netting flying up, the red light flashing, the buzzer going.

The crowd roars as Cam and Rome barrel into me, hugging me and smacking my back as we collide with the boards.

Cheers and fans banging against the boards.

"Fuck yeahs!" from my teammates.

That high that only comes from when something goes really, really right.

"One more, yeah?" I say as we skate toward the bench.

Cam nods, mouth curved up into a grin. "About that," he says as we sit down. "I've got an idea."

One I have no doubt will work…

And it does.

The very next shift we have, we execute Cam's tic-tac-toe of a play, sending the crowd roaring again, the buzzer going, the goal song blaring through the arena's speakers.

Nothing beats this high, especially when I manage to sneak a glance up at the owner's box and see Rory and Chrissy jumping around like adorable lunatics. They're smiling, but I can't see much more of their faces other than the white of their teeth.

It's enough though.

That flash of white on Rory's face, the evidence of her pride and happiness.

Stupid, huh?

That I don't feel whole until I see a woman amongst twenty-two thousand people smiling down at me.

But it's true.

The whistle goes and I tear my gaze away in time to see my teammates lining up for the face-off. Less than two minutes left in the game now. We just need to keep our shit together for a little while longer, hold on to the lead, and we'll get those two points.

The puck drops, but my eyes drift to the man next to me.

The one who's staring at me.

Rome.

Who leans close and mutters, "You gave me a talking to not all that long ago."

I grind my teeth together, threatening to cut through my mouth guard, but I don't take the bait he's just laid out. Instead, I focus on the game.

I'm one of six siblings. I know all the tricks to get me to spill my guts.

In fact, I'd used them on Rome just weeks before.

"And in that talk"—he pauses, and I feel him looking at me, but I don't tear my stare away from the action on the ice—"you said you're not interested in settling down."

"I'm not."

A beat. "Then what the fuck are you doing?"

I don't even know how to begin to answer that.

Because I don't know the answer to it.

Rome waits a long moment, but I keep my eyes on the ice as we scoot down the bench, moving toward the door leading onto the offensive side of the rink. Then he sighs quietly. "Just don't hurt her, yeah?"

I open my mouth?—

Freeze.

Because I don't know if I can keep that promise.