Chapter 6

Fuck, I love hockey.

The speed. The physicality.

The way the puck feels dancing at the end of my stick.

I don't have to think about it. My body. My skating. My stick-handling. It's all an extension of me.

The cold of the ice.

The burn of my muscles.

The way my lungs seize for a second when an opponent tries to check me off the puck.

The sting of my hands when the subsequent slash comes.

But I keep skating, doing it as hard as possible, working as hard as possible. Possibly because the woman I'm trying to impress is in the stands.

How do I know this?

We've been texting.

And talking on the phone.

She's funny and sweet and tart and…sweet.

And she's coming to the game tonight. Is, in fact, in the stands right now. Hopefully being impressed?—

Slam.

The hit comes from the side and slightly behind, crushing me into the boards, making all my breath wheeze out of me, the puck squirt ahead.

Thankfully, Lake is there to bail me out, scooping up the puck and skating hard to the net, showing off his speed and strength while I'm frantically trying to suck in air and feeling like Wylie Coyote trying to get my feet under me so I can skate after him, can actually support the play, and do this thing called…hockey.

Lake doesn't need the support, though.

He's tearing toward the other team's goalie, handling the puck in a way that's both annoying and beautiful and?—

He makes a move that should be illegal, dragging the puck on the toe of his stick, bringing it behind him, between his legs, and up into the back of the net?—

"Fuck you," I whisper as my skating falters for a heartbeat.

But then I'm smirking, shaking my head, thanking God that Lake's on my team even as I'm skating toward him, wrapping him in a big bear hug.

"Fuck yeah," I tell him, slamming my fist into his back, "you fucking dirty bastard."

Lake shoves me away from him, but he's grinning. "Gotta work on those hands, bud," he tells me over the roar of the crowd before skating toward the bench.

I follow, shaking my head, still smirking.

Knowing I can work twenty-four hours a day every day for the rest of my life, solely on stick-handling, and I will never ever have the kind of hands that Lake does.

And I'm good.

In the top third of the league.

Lake is just…better.

One of the best.

The kind of guy who's going to be in the Hall of Fame, whose name will be remembered.

Probably because it's a dumb one.

Right up there with Toby.

That thought has my smirk disappearing, amusement fading.

Because Jolie and I have been talking. Because I know she officially broke up with him as well as her best friend, Colleen.

Because I know they've both come by her place a couple of times, trying to get in her good graces.

That bitch, Colleen, even asked Jolie to do her hair.

What the fuck?

Luckily, Jolie is done—very done—and since I spent the last week and half getting to know her via text and talking to her for hours on the phone, this is something I know intimately.

I've been getting to know her intimately.

Just not…physically.

Something that will hopefully change.

Because she promised to come to the game, and I enlisted some help to ensure she doesn't escape, muahaha.

Okay fine, it's less evil genius and more one of the guys in the back office I'm friendly with is going to escort her downstairs after the game.

Then I'm going to?—

Lake shoves me, and I realize I'm daydreaming on the bench. A dumb thing for a professional athlete to do, a dumb thing for me to do as that professional athlete, a dumb thing?—

The puck flies toward the bench, nearly taking my head off.

I duck.

A dumb thing as a professional hockey player to do in particular.

That's how people lost teeth or got stitches or broke their eye sockets.

All of which I had already experienced once in my life.

No need to experience those again.

"You gonna get your head in the game sometime tonight?" Lake mutters. "Or are you too busy thinking with your dick?"

The latter.

It's the latter.

But I am not going to admit that.

Not to Lake.

Not with the assholes on the right of him, who'll give me a hard time because they are—the aforementioned—assholes listening in.

"My head's in the game," I mutter. "Or did you miss the fact that I just got the assist on your goal?"

"Is that what getting reamed into the boards is called nowadays?" Lake asks.

"Goals don't have to be pretty," I say, scooting farther down the bench, getting closer to the door, closer to the end that's going to enter the ice unless Coach calls for some different combination of players—something that's not usually done unless we're on a power play or penalty kill or things aren't really working.

Considering that we just went up a goal, I don't think he's going to change line combinations any time soon.

"Fair enough," Lake says, but it's tinged with humor.

Like the fucker knows he caught me thinking about Jolie.

"Fuck you," I tell him.

"Fuck you back," he says, standing and hopping over the boards, the play changing, our teammates jumping onto the bench.

I fumble, left flat-footed, but I make it onto the ice.

And I skate after him.

Fuck if that isn't a familiar feeling.

I take the quickest shower in history of all showers and now I'm pacing the hallway next to the elevators.

Waiting.

For Jolie.

And wondering if she isn't going to come.

If she's going to go home and I'm going to be left with text messages, phone calls, and a trip to the ER. Wondering if it's all too soon.

She just broke up with her boyfriend.

And her best friend.

Of course she's not going to want to make a connection with a man she just met, probably on one of the worst days of her life. She's not going to?—

The elevator doors open with a ding.

I straighten, crane my neck?—

Disappointment flows through me.

Just a security guard.

I smile, step aside since I pretty much bum-rushed the elevator, and start waiting again.

And waiting.

Thinking I'm a dumbass.

Wanting things that make no sense considering I only spent a couple hours in person with this girl, that we exchanged texts and phone calls and that's it?—

"Hey."

I freeze, whip around, and Jolie is right in front of me.

Fuck.

She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen—standing there in a pair of jeans and a Sierra tee, the deep blue color making the silver flecks in her eyes pop. Her hair is a lesson in sin, shining curls tumbling around her face, down her chest.

Simple clothes.

But they cling to her curves…

Her curves.

Which I'm staring at like a fucking pig.

I blink, jerk my gaze up, see that the fragile is there, that it's hiding the steel beneath.

Probably because I'm staring. Like a fucking pig.

"Hey," I say back, the Lothario that I am, realizing she must have come down the stairs.

And then I run out of words.

And go back to staring.

She nibbles at her bottom lip, swallows, and I follow the line of her throat, wanting my mouth there, desperate to taste her there.

Then I notice her injured hand.

And the words just burst out of me.

"Can I sign your cast?"

Right as Lake Jordan—underwear model, vodka brand ambassador, and fucking All Star—walks around the corner.