Page 18 of Pucking Amazing

The plane lifts off with a shuddering jolt and I swallow hard. Flying and losing—my two least favorite things. What a banner day.

Suddenly, the seat beside me dips and DJ’s woodsy cologne invades my nostrils. I glance over to find him grinning at me. My pulse kicks up a notch that has zero to do with the turbulence.

“Tough game, eh?” DJ bumps his knee against mine. The brief contact sends a shockwave straight to my groin. “Their offense was killer.”

“More like I sucked,” I mutter, jaw clenched. “Let in way too many.”

DJ tsks. “Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself, Ty. We win as a team, lose as a team, right? Besides...” He leans in, voice a low rumble. “I happen to know you’re amazing at playing hard and fast. On the ice, of course.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of me. Trust DJ to pull me out of my self-loathing with some well-timed innuendo. It’s one of the things I lo—appreciate about him.

As a friend. A teammate. Because that’s all we are.

I clear my throat, willing my body not to react to his proximity. “Of course. Thanks, man.”

DJ studies me a beat longer, gaze drifting to my mouth, before he sits back with a smirk. “Anytime, babe. Anytime.”

My breath hitches at how easily the endearment rolls off his tongue. I both crave it and curse it.

“We all had a rough game,” DJ says, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily.

DJ starts rehashing a play he thinks he screwed up, and my fear of flying is momentarily forgotten. Realizing that his presence is pulling me out of my spiraling negative thoughts, he launches into a funny incident from the locker room and his body seems to angle towards mine unconsciously, our shoulders nearly touching.

I can’t help but notice the spark between us, a terrifying, thrilling magnetic pull.

At one point, he throws his head back laughing at something I said and his hand lands on my thigh, squeezing gently. I tense for a millisecond before allowing myself to relax into it. There’s nobody around to see, everyone’s zonked out asleep...what’s the harm in enjoying this closeness, just for a bit?

DJ’s thumb rubs circles on my leg and I suppress a shiver. This is straying into dangerous territory but I can’t bring myself to pull away.

Not when it feels this good, this right.

“Y’know, you’re something else, Tyler Simmonds,” DJ murmurs, holding my gaze with an intensity that steals my breath. “Funny, humble, talented as hell...the whole package.”

“Look who’s talking,” I shoot back, emboldened by the heated gleam in his eyes. “DJ Johnston, resident puck god. You’ve got half the women in Chicago ready to drop their panties for you.”

“Only the women?” He arches an eyebrow. “Clearly I’m not trying hard enough.”

My heart races at the implication of his words. Is DJ trying to tell me something, or is this just his typical flirtatious bullshit? And if he is trying to tell me something—if he is attracted to me, too—then what?

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can form any coherent words, the plane hits a patch of turbulence and DJ’s hand instinctively tightens its grip on my thigh. My heart catches in my throat as we both brace ourselves for the sudden shaking.

As soon as the turbulence subsides, DJ pulls back slightly, his hand staying firmly planted on my thigh. But this time, it’s different—more possessive, more intentional.

Our eyes lock for a moment and I see something raw in DJ’s expression. It’s as if we’re both silently acknowledging the unspoken tension between us.

The sudden rattle of a flight attendant’s cart passing down the aisle startles me and I flinch. DJ clocks my unease and smiles, leaning back into his seat and eyeing me with those deep brown eyes that always seem to see right through me.

“So yeah, about the game tonight,” he starts, his tone casual. “I was thinking we need to adjust our strategy for next time.”

My jaw clenches involuntarily. The loss is still raw, like an exposed nerve, and I can’t help but wonder if what DJ means is that I need to adjust my strategy.

“Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?” I try to keep my tone light but there’s an edge to it.

“Well, a couple things. Like, their forwards were getting past our D pretty easily.” Read: they were scoring on you nonstop. “Maybe we need to tighten up the gaps, put more pressure on them in the neutral zone.”

He says it lightly, but I can’t help hearing it as pointed, a reminder of how incapable I am of defending the net if they let anyone near me.

“You saying it’s my fault? That I let in too many goals?” My face gets hot, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

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