Page 50 of Body Check

I can’t deny it; my first inclination is to drive his body face first into the decrepit carpet beneath our feet. But my second . . . Hell, my second acknowledges that what he says has some truth to it.

I was miserable.

Holly was miserable.

And, yes, my preoccupation last season cost us our run at the Cup when I couldn’t get my personal life separated from my life on the ice. I let emotion control me, the way I’ve constantly warned rookies like Kammer not to let happen.

Tonight, though, showed me everything that I need to know: I want my ex-wife with everything that I am. And I mean that I want all of her, both the seductress when she’s grinding on top of me and the vulnerable side that she shows to no one but me.

I can win the Stanley Cupandearn back my place at Holly’s side.

There’s no way I can’t.

I clap my hand down on Cain’s shoulder and offer him a blasé grin. “Got it. No more trying out forThe Walking Dead. That I can handle.”

His blond brows knit together. “And eye on the prize, right? No fucking around with Holly when the two of you are finally getting your shit together and acting like normal, non-lovesick people.”

“Oh yeah.” Lie, lie, and lie some more—pretty sure I picked that up from a former teammate. “We lost our heads. Sometimes shit happens, y’know? Anyway, it won’t be happenin’ again. My dick can promise that.”

Cain’s expression relaxes. “Your dick’s making promises now? Should I ask it—”

“No.”

“But the Beast has got to have a say in—”

I give his shoulder a shove. “My dick would like to be left out of this narrative, thanks.”

The door to my right opens and Beaumont’s head pops out. “What’s this about Cap’s dick?”

Jesus Christ, they’re like goddamn grandmothers on this team, always nosily eavesdropping. The least they could do is bring me snacks before breaking out the claws. Pointing at Andre, I grind out, “Shut it. We’ve reached the end of this talk and I’m going to bed.”

From down the hall, I hear, “Carter’s dick is making promises nowadays!”

Harrison.

And I thought we were friends.

I inch back toward my hotel room, thankful, at least, that us veterans are given our own rooms during away games. If I had to put up with any of these pricks for the next eight to nine hours, I’d smother them in their sleep and then send their families a gift card to the Olive Garden.

I’m a kind person like that.

“Jackson Carter, owner of the Genie Penis,” Beaumont muses, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I’m thinking ahead . . . merchandise. T-shirts, mugs, bookmarks for our literary fans. I’m a genius.”

“You’re an asshole,” I mutter, disgruntled, “and Zoe should have run from you at the altar.”

He steps into the hallway. “I may have to make a wish for that to never happen.” His big hands drop, and I see my life flash before my eyes before I’m smacking the two offenders away before they have the chance to grope me.

The problem with hockey players?

There’s no boundary that won’t be crossed in the name of screwing with your teammates, and not a single one of us has any shame.

Even so, the next person to touch my junk isn’t gonna be Andre Beaumont.

No, Holly is the only one who’ll have that opportunity—even if that means pulling out the big stops to show her how much fight we still have left to give when it comes to saving our relationship.

I flash Beaumont the bird, do the same for Cain, and then close my door in their faces, a grin on my face. They might be annoying as all get out, but after so many seasons together, they’re also family.

Moving to the small desk by the window, I pick up my cell from where I left it earlier. I’m not comfortable with the way things ended with Holly tonight, and though she probably won’t see my text till the morning, my gut is urging me to send something to her now, to smooth any troubled waters.

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