29. Dj

CHAPTER 29

DJ

I'm practically wearing a path into the polished hardwood floor of Slade's sprawling living room, my sneakers squeaking in protest with every agitated stride. This house reeks of good taste and even better paychecks—high ceilings with crown molding, state-of-the-art technology, endless plush couches that are begging for lazy days, and art on the walls that I'm damn sure didn't come from a thrift store.

"DJ, if you keep pacing like that, you're gonna drill a hole straight to China," Emma teases from her cozy nest of throw pillows, not bothering to look up from her tablet.

"Sorry, Em," I mutter, pausing to flash her a grin. She's the kind of girl who can pull off bedhead and PJs like it's high fashion, and right now, she's all Sunday morning ease with her hair in a messy bun and a steaming mug of something caffeinated on the table beside her.

"Got your jockstrap in a twist over Ty?" Ryan asks, poking his head out from the kitchen, where he's probably pilfering someone else's snacks. Guy's got an appetite that could rival a bear pre-hibernation.

"Something like that," I admit, scrubbing a hand through my hair.

Slade lounges in a leather armchair like it's his throne, his grey-blue eyes sharp and assessing.

"Just spit it out," Slade commands, but there's a warmth there that says he's already halfway to my corner.

"Tyler's a mess, man," I start, throwing my hands out, tattoos stretching with the motion. "The guy won't stop beating himself up over the last game. I mean, we clinched our spot, and he's acting like he single-handedly tanked our chances."

Slade nods, the corners of his mouth pulling down. "He puts too much pressure on himself."

"Exactly." I flop down onto the opposite chair, my body language broadcasting frustration. "You know how he gets—like he's trying to shoulder a mountain or something."

"Okay, so what do we do about it?" Slade leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking every inch the captain ready to lead us out of rough waters.

"Distraction. He needs something to take his mind off the ice," I suggest, hoping the vague idea blossoms from there.

"Like a group outing? Just the guys, no hockey talk allowed?" he offers, tapping a rhythm on his thigh that suggests he's already plotting the guest list.

"Perfect. And maybe...throw in some friendly competition? Something stupid and fun without any stakes, like laser tag."

My lips quirk up at the thought of Tyler decked out in neon gear having a blast, momentarily free from his self-inflicted goalie's guilt.

"Or paintball," Slade fires back, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. "Nothing bonds a team like colorful bruises."

"Genius." I can't help but laugh. "It's settled then. Operation Distract Tyler is a go."

"Operation Keep Our Goalie Sane," Slade corrects with a smirk, and I have to agree—it does have a better ring to it.

"Alright, let's get this planned, captain," I say, feeling the band of tension in my chest begin to loosen. With Slade on board, Tyler doesn't stand a chance against this impending morale rescue mission.

"Time to blow off some steam, boys!" Slade announces the next day as we pile out of our cars in front of a local paintball arena.

The place looks like a freaking war zone—inflatable bunkers, stacks of tires, wire spools, and camo netting everywhere. I grin. A little friendly competition and adrenaline is just what the doctor ordered.

We suit up in camo jumpsuits and protective masks. Tyler and I exchange a knowing glance as we strap on our gear, hands brushing.

My pulse races and it's not just from the impending paintball battle.

"I call DJ!" Jason yells. "No way I'm letting that bastard snipe me again."

"In your dreams, Jace. I'm sticking with my boy Ty, you'll never see us coming." I slap Tyler on the back, letting my hand drift lower than strictly necessary. He flashes me a crooked grin.

We break into two teams and disperse to opposite ends of the arena. As smaller groups splinter off to strategize, Tyler discreetly pulls me behind a stack of crates.

"So what's the play?" he asks teasingly, those baby blues boring into me.

I swallow hard. "Uh, Jason and Slade are the biggest threats. Let's try to take them out first. You hang back, pick ‘em off from a distance. I'll draw their fire."

"Draw their fire, huh?" He steps closer, crowding into my space and lowering his voice. "You sure that's a good idea with your bum knee?" He studies my face, something like worry in his eyes.

Concern spikes through me. He doesn't know it's hurting again, does he?

"Wow, you really know how to sweet talk a guy," I deadpan, keeping my voice intentionally light. "My knee is fine. It's sweet of you to worry though, babe."

Tyler rolls his eyes but I catch his smile at the endearment. "If you say so. Don't come crying to me when you're limping later."

"Oh, I can think of a few other reasons I might be limping..." I joke, moving to slide my fingers up his chest.

He shoves me, blushing. "Dude! The guys are right there."

I drop my arm, chuckling. "Relax, they can't see us. But you're right, we should focus. Let's light these mofos up." I clack my paintball gun for emphasis and Ty's face splits into a wide grin.

The whistle blows and chaos erupts. Paint splatters the bunkers in streaks of neon, shouts echo across the arena. I duck and weave, trying to draw the opposing team's attention. A paintball whizzes past my ear. Too close .

I spot Jason crouched behind a stack of tires. Gotcha . I line up my shot, exhale, and?—

Whap ! A paintball explodes across Jason's chest.

Behind me, Tyler whoops. "Sit down, son!"

We fall into an easy rhythm, moving in sync. He lays down cover fire while I advance. Slowly, we pick off the others until it's just Slade left standing.

"Where is he?" Tyler hisses.

"No clue. Tricky bastard." A paintball pings off the bunker by my head and I flinch. "Shit!"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just startled me." I risk a peek around the edge of the bunker, scanning for any sign of Slade. Nothing. Dammit .

"I'm gonna make a run for that SUV. Cover me."

Tyler frowns. "DJ, wait?—"

But I'm already off, zig-zagging toward a rusted-out SUV in the middle of the arena. Paintballs splatter the ground at my feet. Almost there . I dive for cover...

And collide with a warm, solid mass. Slade grins down at me, paintball gun leveled at my chest. "Gotcha."

We stare at each other for a breathless moment...then crack up laughing.

"Man, I really thought I had you!" I wheeze.

"That's why I'm the captain," he says smugly. "Better luck next time, rook."

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the match. I'm still grinning as we exit the arena, riding high on endorphins and camaraderie. The guys are ragging on each other good-naturedly, all jokes and easy rapport.

Even Tyler looks relaxed, a genuine smile stretching across his face. Damn, he's beautiful.

I take a little longer than necessary stripping out of my jumpsuit in the locker room. Tyler notices, his eyes tracking my movements as I peel the sweat-soaked fabric off my skin. When I head for the bathroom, he follows.

As soon as the door swings shut behind us, he crowds me against it, claiming my mouth in a passionate kiss. I moan into it, my hands roving the hard planes of his back.

He tastes like adrenaline and desire, a heady cocktail.

"Been wanting to do that all day," he murmurs against my lips.

"Kiss me? You didn't want to shoot me?" I joke breathlessly.

"Bit of both, honestly," he quips with a wry grin. "You're a pain in the ass, but God, you're hot as fuck. Especially in camo."

I drag him back in for another kiss, licking into his mouth. He groans, hands sliding down to palm my ass. Things are just starting to get interesting when?—

"Yo, you guys fall in or what?" Jason's voice rings out.

We spring apart.

"Uh, just finishing up!" Tyler calls, his voice strangled.

"I wish!" I hiss to him in frustration, and he shushes me.

I press my forehead to his, both of us shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

"To be continued," I promise in a whisper.

He nips at my bottom lip. "Count on it."

With one last stolen kiss, we disentangle and exit the bathroom. The thrill of almost getting caught simmers under my skin. I know it's a risk but damn if it doesn't make it even hotter. As we rejoin the group, I catch Tyler's eye, a secret little smile playing about his lips.

Oh yeah. I'm in trouble.

The next day, I frown as I look out onto the ice, the cold air chilling my lungs as I take a deep breath. But the energy in the rink is anything but refreshing today. Tension crackles in the air like static electricity as the team runs through drills.

Mikey slams into Jonesy, our big defenseman, with way more force than necessary. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" Mikey barks.

Jonesy whirls around, eyes flashing. "Me? You're the one who came in late on that play, dickwad."

They square off, facemasks nearly touching as they jaw at each other. I skate over quickly, Slade right beside me. We muscle our way between them, pushing them apart.

"Enough!" Slade roars, using his Captain Voice. "We're a team, for fuck's sake. Act like it!"

Mikey and Jonesy keep glaring but stand down.

I shake my head in disgust. So much for us coming together after that shitshow in Canada. Fragile egos and testosterone, man.

We resume drills but it's a disaster. Passes going wild, guys not communicating. I keep my eye on Tyler in the net and what I see only makes my heart sink.

He looks shaky, fighting the puck, body language defeated. Damn, I hate seeing him like this. I really thought he was in a better headspace after yesterday's excursion.

After practice ends, I hustle to catch up to Ty as he stalks off the ice.

"Hey man, wait up! You wanna grab a protein shake, talk it out?" I reach for his shoulder.

Tyler flinches away from my touch, and I'm surprised by how much the rejection stings. "Nah, I gotta jet. Got stuff to do," he mumbles, not meeting my eyes.

"Ty, c'mon..." Desperate to get through to him, I lean closer. "Don't shut me out, babe. Let me be here for you."

For a second he melts into me and I'm relieved, thinking he's let me in. But then he tenses again.

"I can't, DJ. I just...I can't right now." He ducks under my arm and practically sprints away.

"Fuck!" I spin and smash my fist into a locker, putting a sizeable dent in the metal. Pain explodes in my knuckles but I barely even notice. What the hell was that?

I flex my bloodied hand, examining it idly as my mind works in overdrive. This thing between me and Ty...it's too important to let some macho hockey bullshit torpedo it. But how do I get that through his thick, beautiful skull?

I slump down onto the bench and cradle my head in my hands. One way or another, I need to make Tyler understand what he means to me.

That I'm here for him, for us. Even if it means confronting shit he'd rather avoid.

Because Tyler Simmonds is worth fighting for, and I'm not about to give up now.