Page 37 of Pucking Revenge

My fake girlfriend falls into step with me, giving me a sideways glance. “You okay?”

I slide my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know, because you almost got into a fistfight with your coach tonight.”

Brow cocked, I study her, but I don’t stop moving. “He can’t talk to you like that.”

Sara’s lips twist to the side in a small smile, and she reaches for my arm, looping her hand within it.

“What are you doing?” I dip my chin and take in the way her hand looks against the dark fabric of my suit.

She bites her lip. “When you go all protective boyfriend like that, it turns me on, and since I can’t kiss you, I’ll take what I can get.”

My heart trips over itself at her words. Fuck, this girl and her honesty. She has no idea what she does to me. Not an inkling that the idea of her lips on mine, the fact that she’s even thought about it, makes me want to pin her against the wall and claim her.

Press be damned. Career be damned. My entire life plan, including waiting until I retire, be damned.

But one look into those beautiful blue eyes swimming with mischief has me backpedaling. Because my uncle may be an asshole, but he was right about one thing. She deserves better than that.

She deserves better than me.

“Oh, by the way, Lake is here, so when we’re done with the press, we are totally going out.”

Clasping the hand she still has wrapped around my arm, I suppress a groan. I can’t deny her. Because while she’s mine, I’ll give her every damn thing she asks for, and hanging out with her favorite singer is definitely not negotiable.

If only her favorite singer wasn’t married to the father of one of my teammates. I can guarantee that wherever we end up, War will be there too, and he’s not going to let go of his little quest to get to the bottom of what’s going on with me.

THIRTEEN

SARA

There’s a secret bar that can only be accessed from beneath the arena and the baseball stadium down the block. Naturally, the Langfields own it. Its purpose, obviously, is to allow the players for both Boston teams a place to cut loose and relax away from the prying eyes of their fans and the media.

During the first month I lived in Boston, the guys on the team talked me into coming out with them, but since that night, I’ve rarely been here. The unspoken rule is that in order to be here, you have to be invited by a player. This is where they come to relax, so more often than not, they don’t invite guests. That fact makes it the perfect place for the Langfields to hang with Ford Hall and Lake Paige tonight.

“I can’t believe we’re really here.” Hannah is practically vibrating with excitement next to me while we wait for our drinks at the bar.

Every inch of this place is covered in sports memorabilia: Black and white images of past championships. Souvenirs from world series games played at Lang Field. Even the picture of the Bolts players on the ice with the Cup after last year’s win.

A sense of quiet respect reverberates in this space. It’s only underscored by the low din of the music, the dimmed lighting, and brick walls.

I bump her shoulder and take in the small crowd that’s gathered. “It’s incredible.”

Brooks, who disappeared along with his brothers when we arrived—probably to discuss the fight with his uncle, which was impossible to miss—is back, cool and calm as always.

Me? I’m the opposite of cool and calm. My body is on fire, and I didn’t suit up and play a hockey game. I didn’t come within inches of getting into a physical altercation. And I wasn’t forced to do one hundred push-ups on the ice in front of thousands of fans.

After all that, how is it possible that he can look so at ease? So perfectly put together and handsome? So unaffected?

Hannah grins up at him. “She looks good in your number, Brooks.”

He eyes me over the rim of his lowball glass as he sips his whiskey, the epitome of calm. When he brings the drink back down, he lifts one brow. That’s the only reaction the comment gets from him. “That she does.”

When Hannah turns to accept her drink from the bartender, I nudge Brooks with my elbow.

“Are you upset that I’m wearing your jersey?”

“Upset?” He frowns. “Not in the slightest.”

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