Page 37 of Bound

As in jack-in-the-box, as in the nickname the team has christened me with, as in?—

Aiden sweeping in to help me.

I clock in his reflection in the glass and…

Kick the puck to the side.

My teammate’s the shit. He’s good. Great really. And that means he’s ready for the puck, even though my kick pass is blind and not completely accurate.

He sweeps it up, makes a nice deke, and whips it back to Smitty, who’s cutting hard to the net.

I lean against the fucker who was slamming his stick into my back, delaying him long enough to make it tough to get to Smitty but not enough to get the interference penalty. Then I’m pushing off the boards, hustling my ass to the goal, creating chaos and trying to not get hit in the ass by Smitty’s hard-as-fuck shot.

Thecrackof the stick.

Thecrunchof my skates on the ice.

The roar of the crowd.

He gets the shot off, and it whizzes uncomfortably close behind my unpadded back. Thank fuck, though, I’m out of the way and then I’m crashing the net, locking my stick with one of the fucker’s on the other team, digging at the rebound that bounces out, trying to shove it in behind the goalie.

The whistle comes before I can get it that far.

Fuck.

There’s pushing and shoving, curse words and crosschecks, and then the refs are in the scrum, pushing us apart, shoving us toward our respective benches—and making sure we go instead of drawing each other into fights that’ll land us five minutes in the penalty box.

I drop down onto the metal plank next to Aiden and Walker, my other linemate, and we take a few seconds to catch our breath, drink some water, and then we’re game-planning for our next shift, eyes glued to the game, watching for any breakdowns we can exploit or openings we can take advantage of.

And the game goes on.

Back and forth, shift by shift, grinding out each and every play until—fucking finally—we get a couple of goals.

And keep that lead all the way to the final buzzer.

I drop my bottle into the holder and push up from the bench, my legs heavy and tired as I fist bump my teammates and then head down the hallway for the locker room.

I’m almost there before I feel it.

Feelher.

Pulse stuttering, I glance over and see her coming down the hall. She’s changed into her usual game day outfit of jeans and a nice blouse, topped with a blazer that has the Breakers logo emblazoned above the breast pocket.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

I peel off from the line, nearly running Smitty over in the process. But I ignore my pain in the ass teammate, ignore what’s no doubt going to be a smirk on his face, ignore that he’ll likely give me shit for this later and get his gossip jollies on in the meantime.

I just close the distance between Claire and me.

Her throat works as I stop with barely a foot between us, not wanting to get my sweat all over her, cognizant of the fact that her flats are no protection against my skates.

But I do slip my hand from my glove, lift it, and gently tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Hey,” I say inanely.

“Hey,” she says back, cheeks going pink.

I open my mouth to ask for her room number, knowing that we’re not relocating tonight because we’ll be playing the other New York team the night after next, but I stop.

---