Page 72 of Body Check

For her part, Holly only throws her head back with a feminine laugh that goes straight to my dick. Her hair is up in its customary messy bun, and while the rest of us goons are rocking suits for the short flight to D.C., as is team protocol, Holls is dressed for pure comfort.

White, billowy T-shirt.

Black leggings that cut off right below the knee.

A pair of sensible tennis shoes that are such a neon pink they’re almost blinding.

I want to pull her into the tiny-as-hell bathroom two feet behind me and strip her bare.

Then again, I can barely fit my own frame into the restroom—add Holly into the mix and I’d be unlikely to even lock the door behind us.

I eye the sweet curve of her ass again, which is inches away from my face, and swallow a groan.

Yeah, joining the Mile-High Club is not much of an option when you’re topping six-four, weigh in at close to two-fifty, and are nicknamed the Beast of the Northeast.

Damn airlines and their inclusive propaganda—I call bullshit.

“Onthatnote,” Holly says now, her fingers fluttering over the buttons on her camera as she catches a picture of what I’m assuming is Kase’s embarrassed expression, “we’re moving on. Hearts are up for our final round. Any takers?”

I glance down at my hand.

Three of Hearts.

Seven of Hearts.

Nine of Hearts.

Clearly, the card gods are trying to tell me something.

Up ahead, Henri Bordeaux, Beaumont, and left-wing Chandler Eden raise their respective cards in the air.

Holly lifts her camera again. “Bordeaux, want to go first?”

“Oui.” Nodding, he smiles at Carmen and waves to the camera like he’s the goddamn Queen of England. He ruffles his dark hair, then tugs sharply on the lapel of his black suit. “I was once fucked by a puck.”

Pure.

Unforgiving.

Silence.

Blinking slowly, I lean my weight forward and lift one finger in the air. My mouth opens. Closes. Parts halfway. I mean, really, I’ve got no words here. “Henri, man, I—” My fingers curl in a fist that I bounce on my knee, once, twice. “I’m sorry, did you say that you werefuckedby a puck?”

“And here I thought I couldn’t bring up nipples on TV,” Kase snickers loudly. “Keep going, Bordeaux. You’re making me look like a boy scout and I’m over here living my best life.”

I hold up a hand, silencing the rumble of laughter. “No, but, really. Henri, dude, that can’t be—”

“To theface!” Bordeaux thrusts a finger at his chin. “A puck to the face,épais.Osti de tabarnak de câlice.”

I might not know French, Canadian or otherwise, but playing with French Canadians for as long as I have? Yeah, I’m fully aware of what words like “tabarnak”mean. And they aren’t all rainbows and unicorns. God knows what the rest of it all translates to.

We’ll chalk this experience up to Lost in Translation, Hockey Edition, and call it a day.

“Holls?”

“Yeah, Captain?” She swings her blue eyes my way, humor making them appear that much brighter.

“Let’s move on from the puck fucks, yeah?”

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