Page 11 of The Pucking Wrong Man

I swore every second on the game clock was ticking down in my fucking brain. Every inch of me very aware of every passing second.

I grunted as I was body slammed going for the puck. “Your mama hits harder than that,” I gritted out as I gained control of the puck and passed it to Jones.

I may be thirty-one years old...but “Yo Mama” jokes definitely still did it for me.

Couldn’t get tired of a classic.

The score was tied with a minute left, and we couldn’t seem to find the back of the net.

At least they couldn’t either—thanks to Walker’s stellar performance between the pipes…and Lancaster and my supreme talent at defending, of course.

Ten seconds to go, desperation set in as we scrambled to make one final push. I skated furiously up the ice, the roar of the crowd ringing in my ears as I searched for an opening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lincoln streaking toward the net, his eyes locked on the puck. I sent a pass his way—perfect, of course—my heart pounding in my chest as I watched him line up the shot.

Lincoln reared back, the puck sailed through the air, and…GOAL!

The crowd erupted, so loud that I was sure I was going to need hearing aids in the near future. That would be helpful for the old man jokes.

“Fuck yes!” Ari screamed, tackle-hugging me before lunging toward Lincoln.

I raised a fist in the air and took it all in.

The crowd, the adrenaline singing through my veins, the sound of the buzzer, my teammates going nuts....

There wasn’t a better feeling in the world.

“Oh, hey...let me help you with that,” I said, bending down to grab the water bottles strewn all over the bench that one of the assistant trainers was trying to pick up.

Her face went a dark shade of red, and she dropped the bottle she was holding, fumbling words trying to come out of her mouth.

Hmmm.

“Come on, Hero. Leave the poor girl alone,” Ari huffed with a laugh, slapping me on the back.

I picked up one water bottle—for good measure—and handed it to her, pretending I didn’t notice when she dropped it.

Again.

Somehow I’d picked up the nickname “Hero” in the group.

Did I have some sort of problem where I had a compulsive need to help women in distress.

Yes.

Was I ever going to admit that out loud?

No.

I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with that particular personality trait. I had no intention of finding that out for sure, though.

“Please, tell me you didn’t sleep with Becky,” Logan said as he ambled up next to us as we walked down the tunnel.

“Becky?” I asked, trying to attach a face to that particular name.

Logan snorted. “The assistant trainer. The one who about orgasmed when you gave her a water bottle?”

Ohhh.

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