Page 68 of Knotted Laces

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cam

“I’msurprised you managed to peel yourself away from your sex cabin,” King says, saucering a puck in my direction.

I catch it on the blade of my stick, spin, and fire a shot on net.

It flies into the top corner with ease.

Kind of like these last few days have been.

Wednesday afternoon Dan sprung us from river jail—which in actuality, was him cock-blocking me. Yes, he was helping as planned. Yes, I was grumpy about it. No more excuses to stay entwined in each other, to stay naked, to eat and fuck and play video games.

Not that Athena didn’t work.

She spent time on the phone, on her laptop, working on her case. Just like I spent time working out—and not just by fucking her.

But now we’re back in the Bay, back to reality, back to?—

Another puck flies toward me, but I’m not quick enough. It smacks me hard in the stomach.

“Ow,” I groan.

King smirks. “That’ll learn ya.”

“Asshole,” I mutter.

He flicks another puck at me, but this time I’m paying attention. “Maybe,” he says. “But at least I can catch a pass.”

“Remind me to never tell you anything about my personal life again,” I mutter.

“Hey,” King says, “if I was trapped with a woman in a love shack, fucking her brains out, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops too.”

Shouting, apparently, being sending a text to our group chain saying I was busy with a woman and couldn’t meet up for kitten time.

I’m still not certain how they got that even much out of me?—

But the truth is that I’d caved like a cheap suitcase.

Must be that older brother sniffing out secrets super power.

Or maybe the fact that I’m fuckinghappyand my tongue was loosened.

I send the puck back to him—hard, much harder than we’ve been passing. Mostly because today is just about getting some ice time and fucking around, staying loose, finding the joy in the sport again. Not trying to kill each other, even though I’m not opposed to giving my annoying teammates a couple of bruises. Unfortunately, for me King just catches it without issue, sending it sailing over to Rome, who takes a shot.

Ping!

There’s nothing like that sound, especially when it’s resulting in a bar down—the puck bouncing into the net instead of hitting a post and bouncing out.

Hudson, who’s standing next to me, whistles. “Goddamn, the man’s got a shot.”

I look over at my teammate—or maybe I should say that I lookup.

He’s a big fucker, one of the biggest on the roster and built like a tank. But contrary to most of the absolute units in theleague, Huddy is fast as hell, liquid lightning. And it doesn’t take half a sheet of ice for him to get going.

He’s got great hands too.

And isn’t a douchebag.

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