Page 7 of Bound

“I haven’t seen him like this since his rookie season,” Luc mutters from next to me, and one glance and I can tell he’s doing his best to keep his expression neutral.

I’m doing the same—Luc taught me embrace my inner Stone Face, because one never knows when the camera may be panning this direction.

No need being caught on a feed somewhere looking unhappy.

That’s just fodder for the sports and gossip blogs.

At least make them work for their stories.

Or work for the Breakers, I think, allowing my mouth to tip up just slightly at the edges, gaze drifting to the box where former sports blogger, Eva Moreno, is broadcasting, now a significant part of the team’s television crew.

Luc’s sneaky, working his magic on parts of the team that don’t necessarily fall under his purview, but that benefit this family he’s built.

And I’m soaking in every sneaky moment.

“I don’t think I’veeverseen him like this,” I say quietly.

Luc sighs and leans back in his seat, fingers steepled in front of him. “Everyone has an off night.”

Not Jackson.

If I’ve learned anything in the years since I joined the team, way back when Jackson was that rookie, it’s that all players have ups and downs.

Except Jackson.

He’s the steady on the roster—the guy who always shows up ready to go, whose constant, even energy keeps propelling the team forward, whose calm presence has guided the team to several Stanley Cups.

But that’s not the Jackson I’m seeing on the ice tonight.

“Christ,” Luc mutters and I jerk, focusing on the rink below, on the sight that has even my Master of the Stone Face boss wincing.

Jackson has launched himself at the biggest guy on the ice, and they’ve lost their gloves, grabbed on to each other’s jerseys, and are punching each other.

Repeatedly.

“Damn,” I whisper when Jackson takes a fist to the jaw, sending his head snapping backward and blood gushing down his face. “That has to hurt.”

“It does,” Luc says. “Even in that moment”—a nod to the ice—“but especially later.”

I bite my lip as Jackson takes another blow, even as he unloads several of his own in quick succession. “His face or his hands?” I ask quietly.

“Both.” Luc flicks his gaze in my direction. “And everywhere else. It’s hard work to fight and that shit strains muscles below muscles that we never knew we had. He’ll feel like a truck ran him over tonight?—”

“Men and their little games.”

He grins, a flash of a smile that’s absolutely stunning, and turns in a flash. I’m doing the same because I recognize the female voice, because I know that Luc’s wife, Lexi, is standing there. She strolls through the suite and plunks herself into Luc’s lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his mouth so scorching hot that I look away to give them privacy.

Lexi doesn’t give a fuck about fodder for gossip blogs.

She’s happy and in love and doesn’t care who knows it.

My belly twinges with jealousy, but I push that down. She and Luc deserve every bit of happiness.

God knows they deserve it.

I stare down at the ice below again, see that the refs have intervened and separated Jackson from the huge ass player he’s been fighting, guiding them to the doors that lead off the ice.

The Breakers are up by three goals, there’s less than three minutes left in the game, and Jackson and the other guy will each have at least a five minute penalty for fighting (and likely, Jackson will get extra time because he’s the one who started the trouble), so they might as well head to the locker room to get undressed.

---