Page 14 of Body Check

It’s better for team morale if that’s all they see.

My ass is on the bench, my shoulders hunched as I unlace my skates when I hear her.

Holly.

“Coach, always good to see you.”

Spine snapping straight, I make a mental note to slow the immediate rush of my breath as I wait for her to speak again.What the fuck is she doing here?

“Holly,” Coach says warmly, “I’m so glad you called.”

Called?

I give up any pretense of staying in my own zone and swing my legs over the side of the bench. Dressed in nothing but my compression shorts and Under Armour leggings, I watch as my ex-wife leans in for a hug from one of the NHL’s most popular coaches. Holly smiles prettily, all pink-painted lips and straight, white teeth, and then gives a small tug on the hem of her deep blue sweater. Tight skinny jeans complete the look, along with knee-high black boots. Slung across her chest is a dainty silver purse that doesn’t even look like it could fit my wallet.

I blink.

Blue sweater. Silver purse.

Blades’ colors.

What the hell is she doing?

Like she’s got a homing beacon on me, her blond head turns in my direction. Blue eyes pin me in place. That is, before her gaze drops to my bare chest and lingers a touch too long. Call it primal nature or what have you, but I have the most absurd urge to stretch my arms above my head and gauge her reaction.

Since our divorce, exercise has been my singular outlet for every emotion under the sun. I’ve always been big—journalists don’t call me the Beast of the Northeast just because of that time I played with a shattered knee cap—but I know what I look like now. I know that all those extra curls and burpees and miles-long runs have thickened my arms and strengthened my core.

As her cheeks pinken, I drop my elbows to my thighs and kick up my chin to keep my gaze locked on her face. On her parted lips.

Her fingers lurch to the chain-link strap of her purse like she’s holding on for dear life. A heartbeat later, she whirls away, presenting me with her trim back and small, perky ass, and—

I slam my eyes shut.

Stop right there, man. Go no further.

A big body slides onto the bench beside me. “What’s Holly doing here?”

My fingertips dig into the spandex leggings, grounding myself against the heat sparking to life in my groin. To Duke, I mutter, “No idea. We don’t talk.”

“You did at Beaumont’s wedding,” comes his dry reply.

“Let me rephrase. We don’t talk on a regular—”

“Make sure your dicks are in your cups, gentlemen, we’ve got a visitor!”

At Coach Hall’s half-assed joke, my teammates grumble loudly about wanting the opportunity to let their dicks fly free, but everyone laughs, and no one takes offense, least of all my ex-wife. They know Holly well—she’s been the lead photographer behind the Blades for a number of years now. She’s done engagement pictures, graduation photos, and even baptism shoots for some of the new Blades babies.

But nothing has been scheduled for today, which means her presence comes with a giant question mark.

“Put them away,” she says now, mock-shielding her eyes, “I don’t need to see any of y’all’s micro-penises, trust me.”

“Having flashbacks to Carter’s small dick?” shouts an asshole from the opposite corner of the locker room.

Let me repeat: Beast of the Northeast.

Suffice as it is to say, the guys know I don’t put up with Holly being dragged into their gutter talk. Not when we were married; not now either.

Josh Kammer, as a rookie, hasn’t been dealt that lesson yet.

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