Chapter 23

Coleson

The crowd is electric as I haul ass up the ice.

All the tickets were free tonight for the last preseason game before the regular season starts. Everyone is decked out in orange and black, and they’re chanting, “Let’s go Bears.” I love it, and with each chant, I feel a bolt of energy to score for the fans. They’ve come out with bells and whistles, and I want them to be proud of their home team. As I battle in front of the goal with the defensemen from the IceMen, I watch as our defensemen pass the puck back and forth. Evangelina is trying to find an opening, while Andrews is posted up in the right circle. Walther, our defenseman, can’t get the puck to either of us because of the coverage by the other team.

I push off the defenseman I’m battling and skate to the middle. Walther sends the puck to me, and I redirect it to Andrews with ease—and much to his coverage’s surprise. The puck hits his blade with precision. Andrews dekes left, passing the puck ahead and ultimately to himself. It’s just him and the goalie, and when he goes top shelf, the goal lamp lights up. I throw my hands up, as do the rest of the boys, while the crowd loses their damn minds. We skate to Andrews, hugging and tapping gloves, though, as always, Andrews doesn’t even acknowledge me.

Bastard.

He’s making my life really hard lately, and it’s fucking annoying. He tries to act like things are good in front of Coach, but he is still very standoffish with me. He doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t communicate, but he’ll pass the puck if he absolutely has to. I’m trying to be patient and understanding, given the fact that I know I fucked up. I know I hurt him and his best friend. If I had a best friend, I’m sure I would act the same. But I think, on the ice, I would leave it all behind me. Andrews does no such thing, and it’s driving me crazy, especially when I have enough to deal with.

I can still taste my wife on my lips.

I can still hear myself moaning her name.

Eliza.

I don’t know why I did that. I have done so well calling her McDavid or, now, my wife. Because her name… Fuck me, I love her name. I have never been so taken by a name, but when she introduced herself to me for the first time, the sound of her voice, the way her lips formed her name, hit me square in the chest. I knew repeating it would be dangerous. I’d like saying it too much, and next thing you know, I’d find myself feeling something. It’s so precious, so beautiful, and fits her to a tee. Every time I think it or say it, I get this warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest, and I don’t know why. That’s why I went with McDavid. Her first name makes me feel like it belongs on my lips, and after moaning it the way I did, I know my reluctance to say her name has merit.

I have to be careful.

And I sure as fuck can’t sleep with her again.

It has taken everything out of me not to touch her, to kiss her, to devour that sweet pussy of hers at every waking moment. I’ve woken up with her legs tangled in mine and my cock standing at attention against her ass. I know she felt it since she wiggled that sweet ass against me. I hightailed it out of that bed so fucking quickly, it was embarrassing. Pathetic. Goddammit, why couldn’t I resist her? Why did I allow myself to taste her, to hear her moan my name, to feel her squeeze my cock to within an inch of its life?

I am a fucking idiot.

But fuck me if I don’t want her more than I want my next goal.

I skate to the bench and go through the door before sitting down beside Evangelina. He squirts water into his mouth before spitting it out on the ice. He holds out his glove toward me, and I hand him my bottle that is full of amino acids. He squirts it into his mouth and swallows before handing it back. He does this every time we come back to the bench, and it’s funny how quickly I’ve fallen into this rhythm with him. I take my own swig and then lean on the bench before he taps my elbow.

“Great pass,” he says, and I nod.

“Thanks.”

I watch as the next line fights for the puck. Once the other team gains access, I glance up at the jumbotron to check the time. We have only three minutes left in the second. With Andrews’s goal, we’ve tied the game, and I’d like to get another goal to take the lead before we head into the locker room. A line change happens and shots pepper our goalie, but Cruz bats them away with ease. He’s in the zone, and I’m in awe of his quickness.

But then our line is called, and I jump over the bench along with my teammates. Once more, Walther sends the puck to me, and I carry it up the ice. As soon as I gain the zone, I pass it over to Andrews, who throws it back to Walther while we get in position. Again, I’m in front of the goal, fighting to block the goalie and hopefully to get a piece of a shot to redirect past him. I’m getting whacked in the back and in the side, but I don’t move. Once the puck lands on Evangelina’s blade, he sends it flying, but it’s blocked by the other team’s defenseman I’m fighting. I pass the puck back to the line before the defenseman I’m battling can have access. I push off him and head around the goal. I somehow gained a lead on the defenseman, and I’m open. I slam my stick to the ice, calling out that I’m open.

Andrews looks at me and passes it to Evangelina.

It was a shit pass, and the defenseman I got away from steals the puck mid-pass. He sends it up to his waiting forward, and he goes five-hole to score.

Blood rushes to my head, my jaw clenches, and I see red.

That’s fucking it.

I skate toward Andrews, but he isn’t paying me any attention. “Hey, asshole,” I call out, throwing my shoulder into his. I send him off-balance, but he steadies himself, glaring at me. “I was fucking open.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do,” I accuse, and I slam into him again.

“Fuck off, Katz.”

“No, you can’t?—”

“Cut it out,” Coach calls over to us, and then he gives me a look. Not Andrews. Me. What the fuck. I go in through the door and slam down on the bench as the coward moves past me to the end of the bench.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter as I lean on my knees, shaking mad. When a hand slams on my shoulder, I look back to see Coach glaring at me with his dark-brown eyes.

My butthole goes tight as he seethes. “Aye. Ya wanna be a dick? Line three.”

I gawk at him. “What?”

“I don’t give a shit what he does. You don’t get physical with your teammate.”

“He started it!” I say, and I realize how childish I sound once the words leave my mouth.

“And I’m finishing it,” he snaps, ending the conversation.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my anger. And damn it, it’s hard.

I have goals.

I admit I was wrong and I shouldn’t have thrown my shoulder into that asshat’s shoulder, but fuck me, I’m so frustrated. Why is it the woman I am married to can look past my past but the fucker I’m playing with can’t? Damn it. This only proves that I need to work harder and I need to get to the NHL.

Away from Andrews’s bitch ass.

Nothing can keep me from doing that. And I need to keep my wife at arm’s length before I do something stupid.

Like forget that this is a fake marriage.