Page 7 of Mother Pucker

I’ve blocked every one of Payton’s attempts to score so far, but it hasn’t slowed her down. If anything, she’s more determined than ever to prove herself. She speeds down the ice again, already lining up another shot.

I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been on the ice, trading barbs and shots in equal measure. True to her word, she’s giving it her all. Not that I doubted her for a minute. Payton is physically incapable of pulling her punches.

It’s just one more thing about her that makes me rock hard.

“Oh, I can think of a few words I’d like to say, Erik.” She zips between cones with practiced ease. “And some I wouldn't mind hearing from you, too. Most of them are filthy.”

There’s a familiarity to Payton’s style on the ice— clearly, she’s learned a lot from her brother over the years. She’s fast and powerful, with explosive energy and a keen eye. But like everything else about her, Payton’s skating is raw, authentic, and uniquely Payton.

Sawyer will spend the first period biding his time— profiling the opposing team and locking in on weaknesses. He never makes a move without a plan and a backup plan in place. It’s part of what makes him such a good captain.

Payton acts on instinct and adrenaline. Her moves are wild and unpredictable because she’s always thinking three steps ahead. I can’t see her face clearly, but I know her brow is furrowed and the soft shape of her lips is set into a grim line.

“You’re trying to distract me,” I state the obvious. “It’s not going to work.”

I’m lying of course. It already has worked. Payton has been a delicious distraction since the day I met her. She laughs again— a full-throated sound that fills the arena with the certainty that she just called my bluff.

Then Payton shifts hard, barreling down the ice toward me. She feints left before pulling back and firing. The crack of puck meeting stick rings out across the rink. Time slows down and splinters in a million directions as instinct and training take over.

It’s a textbook shot. The puck rockets toward me like a missile— low, fast, and locked on target. There’s no time to think. I drop hard, doing my best to ignore the sharp stab of pain that tears through my leg as I do. Keeping my torso straight and my blocker high, I spread my knee pads into a butterfly save.

Then the arena tilts, spins, and threatens to blacken around me. More than pain, this is an icy hot spear of agony that pins me in place.

Thunk

The black puck slides to a halt against the net behind me.

When the worst of the pain subsides and time reverts back to normal, I pull myself to my skates. I’m not surprised to see Payton standing in front of the goal, her helmet tucked under one arm and her stick raised above her head. Her face is flushed, her eyes wide with victory and mischief. Excitement and exhaustion are etched onto her pretty features. Even as my leg continues to throb, I’m enthralled by how beautiful and unrestrained Payton’s smile is.

I skate toward her, unable to hide the grimace as the band of agony tightens around my leg.

“Erik?” Payton drops the helmet and her smile immediately. “What’s wrong?”

The concern is obvious on her face. I shake my head, trying to find words to put her mind at ease without lying.

“I’ll be fine.” It’s the closest I can get. “Don’t worry about me.”

Payton narrows her eyes at me. She knows. She knows, and there’s no place left for me to hide. I should tell her—

Not just about the injury, either. Payton deserves to know how I feel about her, even if I can’t do a damned thing about it yet.

Instead, I take the coward’s way out.

“You win.” The words sound hollow and far away, even to my own ears. “Congratulations, Payton. That was a great shot. I need to hit the showers.”

I turn, unable to meet her eyes as I skate away.

Then I leave the ice, unable to shake the feeling that despite everything, we both just lost.

3

Payton

“Nordstrom, don’t you dare walk away from me!”

My heart is pounding as I tear off my skates and stomp after him in socks. There’s no doubt in my mind anymore— Erik is injured and hiding it from everyone. But hurt or not, the man moves like a longship, slicing through the ice and plunging ahead at full speed.

Despite leaving the rink together, Erik has already disappeared down the corridor that leads to the player showers and sauna. His long legs stretch the distance between us with easy, unhurried steps until I have to jog just to catch up. Nothing as big as Erik should move that fast.

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