Page 4 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

"Both of you need to leave, please; I need to practice." She spit out the words like venom before skating away to the other side of the stadium.

I took a step closer to Dylan, ready to give the obnoxious punk a warning, when the voice of the PR head of the Titans rang through the stadium. "Jackson! I have been looking all over for you. We need photos!"

A growl rolled through my chest, and Dylan flinched out of the way as I stalked out of the stadium. That would be the last time I would ever leave Josie unprotected.

CHAPTER 2

JOSIE

Ten Months Later -- Present Day

Right foot slide. Left slide. Turn over your left shoulder. Scrape the right foot across the ice. Tuck and-

"Fuck!" I tumble on the ice again; the flurries of snow scraped up from the blades of my skates soak into my already wet pants. This is the twentieth time I have attempted to do a Mohawk Turn into a jump, a simple move I could have done in my sleep last season, and now, I can barely do anything more than a basic glide.

I rest my elbows on my knees, my right hand scratching at the loose curls from my bun around the nape of my neck. I almost forget I am not alone, but then the slow clapping from the sidelines erupts. My stomach free falls, and the sound of his skates gliding towards me grates across my skin.

"Better than last week." Dylan shrugs; his black thermal-lined pants come into my eye line, but I still don't want to look into his cocky green eyes. Dylan has a way of hurting me more than I can hurt myself, and that's sayingsomething.

"Oh yeah, or are you just saying that?"

Dylan sighs, and I can tell his fingertips are gripping the bridge of his nose by the annoyed sound. "You asked me to be nicer."

"Nicer, not lie." I bark, my head jerks up, and I immediately regret it. Dylan used to be the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my life. His green eyes have flecks of gold in them. His dark brown hair reminded me of the silkiness of milk chocolate, and his smile used to melt me to the core. Also, it's just not fair how he is lean and toned in all the right ways—that gets my panties wet—or used to, at least.

"Well, how about this, Golden Girl?" I cringe at the nickname from my youth, when everyone thought I was destined to be a gold medalist and my signature blonde, shoulder-length curly hair. "You're not even bronze level anymore."

My eyes widen, and my skin sets a blaze. I press my open palms into the biting ice of the rink, trying to cool down before I say anything I would regret, to the matching accessory of my career. "You wouldn't have hoped to be anywhere near the Olympic Circle if it wasn't for me."

Whoops, so much for not saying anything mean, but fuck him. I was the star. I was the one people came to see, and if it weren’t for him and our old coach pushing me to do the death spiral, then I wouldn't be here. I fling my hand up at Dylan, and he locks his big hand around my freezing fingers, hissing at the sensation. A spark of satisfaction shoots through me at his twisted gaze, but I bite back the impending smile.

Dylan's eyes sharpen onto mine, and his grip tightens to the point I can feel my knuckles crack under his touch.

"Josie, I am the only reason anyone lets your stupid ass near the ice anymore; remember that."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had a lineup of women ready to be dropped onto the ice." I snarl, yanking my arm, but Dylan pulls me in closer against his chest.

His hand snakes around my waist, and from the outside looking in, we look like we're in love, doing the tango, and I am just so lost in his eyes. There was a time this was true, and we would be seconds from running into the locker room and warming each other up, but now I wouldn't let him touch me with a ten-foot pole or the five inches in his pants.

"Hockey tryouts are in ten. I need all skates off the ice." A gruff voice bellows from the stands.

Dylan doesn't look up. Instead, he sweeps his eyes to my lips and then back to my eyes as he speaks. "You got it, Coach Chris."

My nostrils twitch, and Dylan smirks at the slight rise he gets out of me before pushing me away, so I have to dig in my skates to stop. My bun loosens, and more strands fall in my face as I watch Dylan skate away and off the ice. My eyes flicker up to the scoreboard, the time beaming bright red at the top.

"Hockey tryouts are not for another two hours," I call up, looking at Coach Christopher Jackson, the best living player in NHL history and the new coach of the Northbrook Tigers, a team who made it to finals last year and bombed so hard the world had bet their ranking was a mistake. If Northbrook was going to play that badly, then no one should have let them in the darn arena; it was a disgrace. It was also the only thing that eclipsed the news of my head splitting and what everyone thinks is a career-ending injury.

Did I mention that Coach Jackson is also the only person in the world who can make my breath hitch and my bodyquake just by saying my name?

"He was in your face again." Coach says, leaning back in his bleacher seat right next to the left side of the arena. His long limbs stretch over three rows of benches as he watches me.

I turn to practice a trick I learned at six, a scratch spin. It's simple: start by grinding backward on an outside edge, then shift to a spinning position by pulling your free leg and arms inward to increase rotation speed while balancing on the ball of your skating foot. Easy, so when I have to hit the glass to brace myself from falling, I scream. "Shit!"

"Aye, watch your mouth, princess." Coach corrects, leaning forward in the stands.

He wears a gray thermal long-sleeve shirt, Timberland boots, and baby blue jeans. His thick black hair is smoothed back into a slick style, his beard is professionally trimmed, and he looks like the Greek sculptor Phidias sculpted every muscle on his body. If I didn't already know who he was, I'd think he was just a really hot senior and totally would give him my number.

"I'm not a princess," I growl, gliding along the rink’s wall.

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