Page 80 of Bound

“Yes.”

He closes his eyes, drops his chin to his chest. “I wasted a fuck-ton of time. You could have been mine long ago.”

“I’m yours now.”

He lifts his head, mouth curving. “You and me versus the world?”

“Yes.” I grin, drop my hands to his chest. “Along with you and me practicing until we get to perfect,” I say lightly. “Because I have lots andlotsof ideas.”

His smile is wolfish, and he opens his mouth?—

Knock. Knock.Knock!

Jackson groans.

Then again when Smitty’s voice echoes through the door.

“Come on, Boxie!” he calls. “We have hockey to play!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Jackson

“Ready?” Aiden asks, eyes locking with mine, and we’ve played together long enough that I know exactly what that look means, know exactly where to move when the puck drops and he wins the draw back to Smitty at the point.

I fake like I’m cutting to the middle, prepping for the tip while Marcel sweeps in along the side, stopping their forwards from taking away Smitty’s space for the shot.

And just like planned, their D follow me to the net…

And then away from it, freeing up space in front, giving Smitty the chance…

To fake a shot and pass it over to his defensive partner…

Who’s streaking in, using his speed to blow by the assholes standing flat-footed on the other team, bracing for a rocket of a shot that doesn’t come.

It’s a second at most—that we catch them off-guard. We’re all athletes, trained and coached to respond to the rapid-fire speed of the game, the second-to-second changes that mean we always have to be thinking three steps ahead.

But we have them for that second.

And it’s enough.

I grit my teeth and move back to the net, my defensive tail following me and giving me a love tap—aka a crosscheck to my spine that sends my teeth rattling—for my trouble. I brace myself, take my position, track my team, the puck, the possible permutations…and I hold my ground.

Chaos.

We’re down a goal and weneedchaos, need traffic in front of the net, asses in faces, anything to obscure the goalie’s view of the puck and the shot that’s going to be coming his way.

Crack!

Right now.

Coming the goalie’s way right now.

I try to get out of the way, but I don’t fully succeed. I feel the impact of the puck against my foot, the pain radiating up my ankle, my leg.

That’ll leave a fucking bruise.

But I’m already spinning, trying to anticipate the deflection, trying to get to a spot where the puck has gone.

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