Page 13 of Good Pucking Luck

It’s the beginning of the third period, and we’re up by three goals. Volkov and Kemper are at center ice for the face-off. Adrenaline rushes through me, the buzz under my skin intensifying. I feel like there’s fire fueling me when the puck drops.

Seattle gets the puck—Kemper with a quick pass to their left winger, who’s heading toward the goal. I fly straight toward him, burning ice with how fast I’m skating. He tries to get around me, but I check him, fighting for the puck, against the boards. He spins, manages to break away, but again I’m right there, not letting him get too far away, then using my body as a weapon, to keep him from scoring. The other Seattle players swarm our end of the ice, Stevens, Volkov, and Tremblay covering the other players to keep this motherfucker from getting off a pass.

The Seattle crowd roars in the background, but I’m so damn used to it that all it does is feed my hunger to show them they don’t have anything on me. My heart is beating a hundred miles an hour, and I feel like someone injected magic into my veins. Like there’s nothing I can’t do. As fast as the game is moving around me, my focus is on the player I’m defending. Just as he tries to send off a pass to Seattle’s other winger, when he makes a cut, I see my chance. My arm shoots out, stick right where it needs to be to intercept his pass, and then I push away, trying to put some space between me and them.

Volkov is already darting down the ice, the perfect opening between us as we skate toward their goal. I make an excellent saucer pass to Volkov. He does his job, intercepting the puck just before his arm pulls back and he slaps the puck toward the goal, the black disk flying past the right side of their goalie’s head and into the net. The lamp lights up, the sound indicating a goal for Volkov, and I’ll be credited for the assist.

The rest of the game continues to go well. Toward the end of the third period, I make another steal, then jet down the ice for a fantastic goal, the puck slipping between the goalie’s legs.

“Fuck yes, Pierce!” Mads says as the guys jump on me and congratulate me. I feel like I’m flying.

“Ending the game with a goal from our D-man!” Kennedy says on our way to the dressing room.

We celebrate together, back and ass slapping, full of laughter and fucking pride. My heart is beating so damn hard, I’m afraid it might bust out of my chest, but the truth is, it would be a good way to go. Well, except I still don’t have my cup, so I’m not going any-fucking-where until I have that.

“What the fuck did you do last night?” Volkov asks.

“You get some good pussy or what?” Stevens adds.

“Or dick…or ass. We’re a progressive team, guys, remember?” Mads chides. It’s always him who thinks of shit like that. I’m bi and proud, but I don’t always remember to make sure the guys aren’t going to the default of straight.

“We know, Madsies.” Volkov ruffles his hair, the group of them joking around together, but I’m still stuck on the first question. What did I do last night? I swapped blowjobs with Harry. While I woke up with a smile still on my face, once we were on the ice, the spectacular sex I’d had last night went to the back of my head. But now it has slammed into me the same way I’d nailed Seattle’s forward to the boards earlier.

Is swallowing a load of his cum the reason I was Super D-man tonight? That might sound like a load of BS, but us hockey players are superstitious as fuck. I met a guy last night who was more intriguing than he should be, got great head, and then played like a fucking king…and I’m never going to see him again.

I’m also fairly certain I don’t even know his real name.

I don’t have much time to think about it, though, because I have to get cleaned up then head out because the press wants to talk to me. Once I’m done, I pull on a Dominating Athletics tee. Part of my endorsement deal with them is wearing their product in my after-game press interviews. I’m handed a Dominating drinking bottle too and head toward the press room.

My hair is wet from my shower as I sit in the chair and grin at the room full of people ready to hit me with a barrage of questions.

I fucking love it.

Well, if we’d played like shit, I wouldn’t have, but after a game like this, all it does is pump me up even more.

“How are you all doing?” I ask, then take a drink of water from the bottle.

“You played one of the best games of your career out there tonight,” one of the journalists says.

“I know, right?” I waggle my brows at her and get a chorus of laughs in reply. They love it when I play along, when I act charming and make jokes. “Who knew I was so good?”

“I think we all knew you were this good,” another says.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I was trying not to project overconfidence. Thanks for ruining it for me.”

I earn more laughter from them.

“Seriously, though, you played like you have something to prove, and whatever that is, you nailed it. What made tonight so special?”

I run a hand through my hair, figuring the best response isn’treally good head. “I don’t know, man. Some nights you’re just on. Tonight was that night for me, but I couldn’t do it without the rest of the team. Stevens and I worked as a unit, holding Seattle back. On the rare occasion someone got a good shot on goal, Mads took care of the rest. It’s a team effort.”

They continue asking questions, and I play my part, grinning, joking, answering, until I’m finally set loose.

We have a quick talk with Coach in the locker room, then hop on our bus, heading to our chartered flight for DC.

The plane is quiet. We ate a meal on board and then everyone else has passed out in their seats, but I can’t stop thinking about my cute little good-luck charm and how much I wouldn’t mind hooking up with him again.

CHAPTER SIX

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