Page 55 of Body Check

The soles of my tennis shoes scrape along the uneven concrete as I step out into the cool, October night. Removing the earbuds, I turn off the heavy metal and tuck my phone and headset into the pocket of my nondescript basketball shorts.

Lift my head as I pull out my car keys and then stop dead.

There’s enough ambient light from the arena’s security lights to spot the lone figure leaning against my driver’s side door, arms folded over her chest and her blond hair pulled up in one of her usual messy buns.

My heart rate kicks back into gear around the same time that my gait resumes, and I gruffly ask, “You need to get into the building or somethin’?” At this time of night, security is long gone. Most of the permanent staff and players have a key card to access the practice arena during off-times, but Holly has always been a contracted employee via Carter Photography.

No access key card to slip into her wallet and use whenever she wants.

My ex-wife’s arms fall to her sides, her fingers diving into the front pocket of her pants—jeans, I think. Dark-washed, if I’m not mistaken, and tight enough to make a man lose all blood in the head on his shoulders.

“Or something,” she says after a beat, not moving or stepping aside when I stop before her.

The last time we were together, I had my tongue down her throat and she was grinding on me like she’d taken up mechanical bull-riding and was determined to ride until her minutes were up. She’d put on a hell of a performance that night, and then proceeded to ignore my calls following our return to Boston.

In a text that I’ve read more times than I’ll ever admit out loud, she claimed that I’ve ruined her for other men.

Well, in the last two weeks, she’s ruined my goddamn peace of mind.

Add that to a concussion and I’m lucky I’m still upright and walking.

“Not interested insomethings.” I reach beyond her right shoulder to set my energy drink on the roof of my car, a little more forcefully than the car deserves. “Unless you’ve got something important to say, I’ve got a hot date with my shower and my TV—”

“The guys are worried about you.”

My arm pauses in its downward trajectory, back to my side, as I dip my chin to look down, down, down at Holly blocking my entrance to my car. “The guys need to stay in their own lane.”

In response, she only latches onto my forearm, the soft pads of her fingers digging into my bare skin. “Don’t be a dick, Jackson. They’ve been concerned since the hit with Fitzgerald. You’ve been short-tempered, moody, and definitely not the patient captain everyone knows and loves.”

My exhaustion is at its peak tonight, dragging me down, making me into the prick I reserve exclusively for the ice.

I tell myself that it’s the only reason I do what I do next: dropping my hands onto the car on either side of Holly’s beautiful head, leaning into her body so that her small but pert breasts press into my sternum, my already hard dick making its presence known against her tight stomach.

I drop my mouth to her ear, needing to hunch my shoulders and curl myself around her petite frame to get her exactly where I want her. “Is that the captainyouknow and love?” My nose rasps along the delicate line of her neck, my tongue coming out to flick the exposed shell of her ear. “The patient man?” Another flick of my tongue, another pulse of my headache forging a stampede in my skull. “The man who walked onto that flight the day after you and him kissed, fully prepared to do what it took to make shit right . . . only to find out you turned into a coward overnight and took a red-eye instead.”

Her sweet voice is reedy thin when she speaks. “Jackson—”

“No.” Stomach twisting, I ball my hands into fists and avert my face. The pulsing in my temples won’t stop, narrowing my vision, making a sheen of sweat break out over my skin, only matched by the throbbing of my cock as I wrestle for control. “If I’m being a moody asshole, it’s got little to do with Fitzgerald.”

I was given the okay by the doc within days of that hit.

That’s how it works in the NHL, how it’salwaysworked. You get hit. You go down. You get your ass right back up again and give the game everything you’ve got the next time you step out onto the ice.

The NHL doesn’t breed pussies—and we’ve all had our marbles rattled a time or two.

I’m no different.

No, as much as I’ve tried not to let her silence needle me, Holly’s the reason I’ve spent more hours than I can count in the gym. She’s the reason sleep has eluded me. She’s the fucking reason why my bark is definitely as bad as my bite these days.

There’s nothing quite like putting yourself out there—to the woman who has always had your heart in a vice, divorce or not—and being slammed with the bat of rejection after reaching out.

Her small hand folds itself in the loose fabric of my oversized Cornell T-shirt, and I’m not immune to the ironic twist of fate that the day I wear my alma mater’s gear is the same day I run into the girl who’s had me all twisted up since we first met at college.

“Jackson,” she tries again, voice soft but dredged up by steel, “that kiss . . . I’m not denying that it felt good. God, did it.” Her hold on my T tightens, twists a little harder, just like my heart. “I needed to collect my thoughts after what happened. I needed to remember every reason why we didn’t work. I needed space because if I didn’t have that then I knew—” She breaks off with a broken laugh, the sound so completely unlike her that I almost cave, almost cup the back of her head and bring her in for a hug and a promise that it’ll all be fine.

That we can go on pretending that the kiss meant nothing two weeks ago and meansnothing still.

I can’t do that, though.

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