Page 65 of Pucking Revenge

Her shoulders relax when she notices me. “Thank God it’s you. I need to see Aiden.”

“You know the drill,” I say, keeping my tone friendly, even if I want to roll my eyes. “He has to shower and talk to the press.”

“He has a concussion! They never should have let him play. Did you see how badly he hit the glass during warm-ups? He was probably distracted because I kicked him out. I rushed over here as soon as I saw it.”

Tipping to one side so I can peer around her, I check the clock on the wall. “It’s after nine. Warm-ups were at six.”

She huffs. “It took me a while to get here.”

“You live five minutes from the arena.”

She huffs, and I swear she lifts her foot like she’s going to stomp it, but then she straightens and fists her hands at her sides. “Are you going to go get him for me or not?”

This time I can’t fight the eye roll. With a subtle nod, I stalk out the door and stride toward the locker room. I do my best to stay out of this space, especially after a game when there’s a good chance of seeing someone’s ass. The guys pay little attention to who walks around. They just go about their business because there are women wandering through at all times. Trainers and support staff and such. Despite how hard I try to avoid it, I end up here pretty frequently.

When I step inside, I cover my eyes, hoping not to get an eyeful of anybody’s junk. “Aiden, your girlfriend is here.”

Rather than Aiden, Tyler is the one who replies. “Saint, your girlfriend is here.”

I’ve still got a hand covering my face, so my heart leaps into my throat when I’m suddenly airborne. There’s a strong arm banded around me, then I’m tossed over a meaty bare shoulder. I have to pull my hand away to brace myself on the muscular back as the man carrying me runs around the locker room like a loon.

I squeeze my eyes shut and squeal. “Get me out of here!”

“War!” Brooks’s tone is pure anger.

Tyler must be the one carting me around in a fireman’s carry. The warning does no good. In fact, it only makes the right winger move faster.

On instinct and out of pure self-preservation, I open my eyes. I need to prepare myself in case Tyler falls. Not that it would do me a whole lot of good. If he goes down, I don’t see any way to save myself from going down with him.

With my cheek pressed against him, I try to make sense of the spinning room. Every person I lay eyes on is wearing nothing but a towel. It’s disconcerting, but not nearly as bothersome as the towel scratching against my skin. Because if I’m not mistaken, it’s the only barrier between my face and War’s ass. “Tyler Warren, I am going to tell on you!”

I ball my hands into fists and bang against his ass, but he only laughs louder. Bracing my palms against his lower back. I turn to get a look at the other side of the room. The first thing I see is Brooks, brows pulled low and mouth set in a snarl, darting for us. He grips his towel with one hand and reaches for me with the other.

My stomach flips, and not just because I’m upside down. No, it flips because I’m envisioning that towel falling to the floor. The view from here would be spectacular.

“I got him, Sar!” Aiden lunges forward.

As he does, Tyler darts left, and instead of grabbing Tyler’s arm, Aiden fists his towel.

Lungs seizing, I watch as he holds the towel up in front of him. A bolt of terror zaps me in that moment, because as War moves, my head bounces off his hairy ass. “My head is on his ass. My head is on his ass!”

The room goes silent, all but a single ridiculously loud snort, and not a single person comes to my aid. Not even Brooks. In fact, when I push up, making sure my hands are planted on War’s back and not his ass, one man has the back of his hand thrown over his mouth, stifling laughter. Brooks is losing it.

My damn fake boyfriend is trying—and failing—to stop from laughing. The rest of the guys are still silent, eyes wide as they look from him to me and back again.

“Put. Me. Down,” I grind out with a pinch to War’s ass.

And as if my face bouncing off War’s stinky rear end wasn’t bad enough, when I’m upright again, the first thing I see is Seb. He’s in a dark suit, hair slicked back, with his arms folded across his chest, glowering at me.

Fuck my life.

TWENTY-THREE

BROOKS

“Brooks, when Florida scored, you didn’t seem nearly as upset as we’d expect. Not when you were so close to a shutout. Can we assume that’s because of the woman in the stands you pointed at?”

I’m not at all surprised by the question from the reporter in the back. The guys have been ribbing me about it since we got off the ice.

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