Page 5 of Pucking Amazing

I wish I knew what that confidence was like.

To just...feel what I feel, without constantly second-guessing myself. Without worrying what it “means.”

I’ve only ever dated women. I’m straight. Or at least, I thought I was.

And then we were in a club a month ago, a couple weeks before that stupid-ass bar fight. DJ pulled a hot stranger onto his lap and was making out with him in front of everyone.

I’ve seen guys kiss before, of course. Lukas and Ryan aren’t shy in front of the team. But I’d never seen DJ in action like that before. The way his powerful arms wrapped around the other man, the things he was doing with his hands, the absolutely sinful look in his eyes when he eventually pulled back…

All I could think was, what would that feel like? If it was me he was kissing, instead…

Fuck. I can’t even let myself complete that thought.

This team is my shot to prove myself, to make my brother Steven proud after he had to retire early. The last thing I need is my personal life getting even more complicated.

And my thoughts toward DJ since that night have been a monumental distraction.

I just need to focus on hockey. But when DJ catches me looking and throws me a wink, my focus slips away by the second.

Coach Daniels claps his hands, jolting me out of my musings. “Alright boys, show’s over. Back to drills!”

I perk up, grateful for the work. It’s always settled my nerves, being on the ice. This is what I know, what I’m good at.

Out on the rink, I can just be Tyler the goalie, my mind blank and my mission clear.

We start with basic drills, stick handling and skating suicides. I throw myself into it, relishing the burn in my muscles, the cold air in my lungs. But even as I try to lose myself in the physical exertion, my traitorous eyes keep drifting to DJ.

He’s a big guy—hulking, almost—but you’d never know it, watching him on the ice. He’s poetry in motion, all grace and finesse as he weaves through the cones. It’s hypnotic.

I could watch him for hours?—

“Head up, Simmonds!” Coach’s bark snaps me back to reality just as a puck whizzes past my left ear.

Shit. I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. I can’t afford to be unfocused. Not with Adam out and the starting goalie position squarely on my shoulders.

We shift into a scrimmage and I take my place in the net, determined to redeem myself. For a while, I stay locked in, deflecting shot after shot. But then DJ snags the puck and comes charging towards me, a wicked gleam in his eye.

He dekes left, then right, leaving my defensemen in the dust.

I square up, ready for his shot. But at the last second, he pulls off some kind of action-hero spineroo move and the puck sails over my shoulder into the net.

“Wooooo!” DJ pumps his fist, circling around the back of the goal. As he passes by, he reaches out and taps me on the ass with his stick. “Almost had me there, Ty! Keep those legs closed next time, eh?”

He punctuates it with a wink and a cackle, skating away while I try to remember how to breathe.

It’s the same kind of exchange we’ve had a million times, but somehow it feels different. Loaded with a new tension. The ghost of his stick burns through my padding.

Jesus, get a grip. It’s just DJ being DJ. Doesn’t mean anything.

But even as I try to dismiss it, there’s a tightening low in my stomach, an ache that has nothing to do with hockey.

I towel off in a daze, my mind still reeling from practice. The locker room seems to stretch on forever, rows of empty stalls mocking me as I try to gather my scattered thoughts.

The creak of the door snaps my attention up. DJ strolls in wearing nothing but sinfully tight compression shorts slung low on his hips.

My mouth goes bone dry.

I can’t tear my gaze away from the mesmerizing sight of his lean, cut muscles rippling under tanned skin as he moves. Intricate tattoos snake up his sculpted arms and wind across his ribs, practically begging to be traced by fingertips...or a tongue.

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