Page 69 of In Too Deep

The goal horn and accompanying song blare through the arena a few minutes into the third period, and I join the dog pile in the corner to celebrate Spencer’s second goal of the evening. We’re only up by one point, so we can’t let our guards down so easily, but we’re doing surprisingly well against the Florida Panthers. They trounced us earlier in the season, but my teammates are on another level tonight.

As we skate back to the bench, the crowd pounds on the plexiglass, and I flash them a lop-sided grin. A group of girls, about fifteen of them, absolutely lose their minds, screeching and carrying on like I just flashed them my ass or something. They’ve been sort of obnoxious all game, but any time I feel too distracted, I only have to glance up to the executive box and remember who I’m going home with tonight.

“The bunn—girl in the second row looks like she wants to have your babies,” Owen snorts to me as I sit beside him, but changes his tune as he catches a glare from Eli.

“If you want to take her up on that, by all means, she’s all yours,” I reply, smoothing over the momentary tension.

“Nah, I’ve got my eye on the redhead.” Glancing across the ice, he makes a kissy face that only sets the girls off again.

“How about you focus on the game and not who you’re going to do after it?” Logan nudges Owen’s back roughly.

Owen clears his throat and returns his attention to the ice, scooting to the edge of the bench in preparation for the line change. “Yes, Coach,” he mumbles, not that Logan is paying attention.

I look up and find him glaring down at me, and I shake my head, denying the silent accusation. I have not a single ounce of interest in any of the puck bunnies. Jerking my chin up toward Tori, I turn slowly, letting Logan follow my eyeline up to see her leaning against the low wall at the front of the box and glaring down into the stands.

“So, that’s where she hangs out,” Logan mutters, almost to himself.

“Like a little guardian angel,” Eli confirms from beside me.

We shift down toward the end of the bench, though I realize Logan still hasn’t looked away from Tori. Not until the Panthers score again, at which point he glares at every skater on the ice, friend and foe alike. I glance at the clock, letting out a short huff. We’ve only got eight minutes left, and we can’t afford to get distracted this close to the end. We’re a little behind in the standings, but if we come out of our Mardi Gras homestand with more wins than losses, we’ll be in a good spot to take the wild card slot for this year’s playoffs. We can’t let off the gas.

Two shifts later, we’re no closer to scoring, but things are getting desperate. We’ve got less than three minutes left, and Florida isn’t letting us take anything without a fight. But we need a win, not a tie. Tex, Alex, and Henri leap over the half wall in a blisteringly fast change, racing up the ice to try to score while the opposition is tired.

“Casino,” Logan snaps, pulling my eyes off the ice to look at him with Spencer and Eli. “Get it done. Whatever you have to do. Play some pond hockey.”

Eli, Spencer, and I look at each other with matching grins. When the time comes to change, the three of us form up aroundKala’s net, moving the puck around without really advancing toward the offensive zone. I keep an eye on the clock. The Panthers are making another change, which is fine with us. We didn’t want their best line out here anyway. They must be anticipating going into overtime and want their good guys to rest.

Joke’s on them.

Spencer’s body shifts a millisecond before he takes off up the ice, Eli and I following on his wings effortlessly. Maybe it’s because of how close we’ve become with Tori, and therefore each other, but I swear I can practically hear Spencer’s passing alert in my head without him needing to say anything. My stick is on the ice just in time to grab the puck and spin around an opposing defenseman, sling-shotting it to Eli, who’s waiting for it near the blue line and carries it in a half-stride ahead of us.

Caleb and Max join us in the zone, and we cycle the puck around, never letting a Florida skater get close enough to pick it off before it’s gone. I’m silently counting down the seconds, eyes darting back and forth between the clock and Spencer. At exactly twelve seconds, Spencer makes a break for the net, taking off so fast that he’s left the two players guarding him behind before they can even turn. Eli snaps the puck to me, and then, without pausing, I send it off. The rubber is a gray blur on the white ice, with no one able to follow it except its intended target. Spencer’s stick barely comes off the ice as he winds up and rockets the puck between the goalie’s glove and leg pad, the goal buzzer kicking off with two seconds to spare.

The cheering is deafening, the whole building seeming to shake as people jump and holler, and I can’t stop smiling. I look up at Tori again, and she’s on her feet, too, even jumping up and down. Caleb tackles Spencer against the boards with Eli and me, all of us laughing. It’s then that something hits my helmet, andas I tilt my head up to figure it out, a string of purple plastic beads slide off my shoulders and onto the ice.

“I didn’t even show my tits,” Eli jokes, his eyebrow quirked in confusion.

“During Mardi Gras, hat tricks are bead tricks,” Spencer shouts over the noise, pointing with a gloved hand toward the jumbotron.

Sure enough, an animated graphic flashes across the screen, occasionally broken up with shots of the crowd hucking beads down onto the ice.

I can’t stop laughing as I navigate my way through the bead obstacle course back to the bench. Just when I think I can’t love this city any more, they always find a way to prove me wrong.

I’d noticed the girlsduring warmups, but thought nothing of them at first. A bachelorette party, most likely, coming to a hockey game for something to do when there aren’t any parades in the city. They took selfies and laughed loud enough for me to hear all the way up in the executive box, but they seemed harmless.

That is, until they start shoving their tits against the glass any time someone skates by their seats about halfway into the first period.

I’m sort of glad that I’m basically part of the furniture in the box, so none of the bigwigs George Hoover is wining and dining pay me any mind as I start my search through social media. One of the skills I’ve honed over the years is finding posts, especially ones posted from within the arena. So pulling up the group photo they took and posted before the game is child’s play. Not that it makes me feel any better.

They aren’t a bachelorette party, but rather a sorority girl reunion trip. Half of them are either married or engaged, but that’s not stopping them from trying to hit on any unfortunate guy who looks their way. The worst part about the whole thing is they aren’t technically doing anything wrong. They’re staying in their seats, and the people around them aren’t making any complaints yet. And being a thirsty puck bunny isn’t an eject-able offense.

None of that stops my newly awakened omega instincts from wanting to launch myself over the half-wall of the box and claw out their eyes for making passes at my alphas.

For the first time since before Christmas, I regret accepting Dee’s offer. If I hadn’t, I’d be able to focus on doing my job, making graphics, editing videos, posting on the team socials. But Rachel’s taken over posting, and Monroe is editing video packages. I’m not even required to attend games if I don’t want to, as I’m only here to put out fires or intervene if someone needs my help. I can’t remember the last time Dee stepped foot on the Mystic compound for a game day. Half the fun of this job for me is interacting with the guys and the public, but it seems like taking his position means I’m not going to be able to do that.

I’m still brooding as the game heads into the second period, and my jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching my teeth. I’ve stopped watching the on-ice action, too focused on the pack of bunnies and their increasingly brazen behavior. Each one of them seems to have picked a favorite, as someone grows extra shrill every time their mark gets close to them. What’s making me see red is that two of them have set their sights on Oliver and Spencer.

My instincts are running wild, vacillating between sullen and enraged. I want to stomp down there and drag them out of the building by their hair. To scream at them that they’re throwing themselves at guys who are taken. To crawl over the barriers andlatch myself to my alphas and stake my claim to them in front of all 60,000 people in attendance tonight. But…I can’t, because as far as the public knows, all my guys are perfectly eligible, and I would ruin my career and theirs if I did something so reckless.

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