Page 26 of Power Play

“No problem.”

“What’s got you so distracted?”

Piper fucking Mitchell.

She looked goddamn sexy strutting up the tunnel with that microphone of hers. It was obvious her confidence wasn’t there when we saw her before the game, but she seemed a hell of a lot more sure of herself after she finished talking with Hudson.

I’ve caught glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye all night.

That bright pink blazer keeps grabbing my attention.

So does her laugh.

I can practically hear it across the ice.

The more time that passes on the clock, the more relaxed she gets. Her shoulders move away from her ears. Her smile gets wider. Morereal, not some forced thing she’s grimacing out.

It’s obnoxious as hell.

Two seconds of seeing her in her element, and I can barely focus on the job I’m paid millions of dollars to excel at.

I need to get my head out of my ass.

“Nothing,” I lie.

“Such a bad liar,” he says under his breath, but he doesn’t press me any further. “Just keep stopping those goals for the rest of the night and I won’t give a shit what you’re thinking about.”

“Would be nice if you decided to score for once in your life. When did you get so selfless and start passing the puck?” I fire back, and he grins.

“There’s my guy.”

We skate onto the ice for the final period. Boos from the hometown crowd greet us, but I don’t pay them any mind as I take my spot in the goal. I also don’t pay the women sitting in the front row and wearing my jersey any mind.

They bang on the glass and try to get my attention. I ignore them, settling into the bliss of blacking out my surroundings. Of only focusing on the two hundred feet in front of me, not who might be in the crowd.

I’ve always been good at dulling the noise. At hearing what I want to hear and seeing what I want to see. I learned early on my brain doesn’t work the way other people’s do. I don’t see colors or shapes. I see solutions to problems and every way a scenario can play out.

When I first started skating as a kid, I noticed how those differences translated to the ice. Every time someone has the puck, I anticipate the moves they could make. I analyze the outcome if they go left then right instead of right then left. Mostof the time, I know what the opposing player is going to do before they do, and I’m one step ahead of them.

It’s what’s made me so good at my job.

Like right now.

The Edmonton Bulls’ right wing likes to cross over center ice. Likes to accept a pass in the offensive zone, then fire off a backhand shot that I?—

“Nice save, Sully,” Hudson yells, whizzing past me when I catch the puck in the center of my glove.

“I gotta give you shit for not paying attention more often,” Maverick adds. He knocks his stick against mine as the ref blows his whistle. “Gets your head out of your ass.”

“Fuck off.” I grab my drink bottle and squirt some water in my mouth. “And get out of my goal.”

“Did you see the fan club behind you?” Maverick teases. “I thought they’d be here for Hudson, but that one girl has a shirt that saysBig, bad Sully can sully me up anytime.”

“Better you than me.” Hudson flashes me a sympathetic grin. “You know I hate that shit.”

“You and me both,” I grumble.

The attention makes my skin crawl.

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