Page 6 of Trade Deadline

With the clock on the jumbotron counting down to warm up, we both unwrap our insanely expensive hot dogs and settle into our seats.

“I think we should hit up Gino’s after the game,” Nate suggests, screwing his foil into a ball and balancing it on the ledge of the boards in front of us.

“Do you think they’ll be there?” I point to the empty ice, referring to the players.

“If they win, yeah.” He props his feet up on the ledge. “They usually go there after a win; people don’t always see them after a loss, but it has happened.”

I chew on the inside of my lip.

The first thought running through my head iscan I afford this?, and the simple answer is no, but I’ve been lacking on the social life front, especially since I graduated college and started working full time.

Surely one night with my best friend won’t do too much harm if I’m sensible.

“Okay, we’ll go, but I have to be up at four for work, so I don’t want to be out too late.”

Plus, my brother Jacob won’t let me hear the end of it if I’m late, seeing as we both get to the shop at five to start baking the day's selection of desserts.

As the arena begins to fill ahead of warm-up, people of all ages stand by the boards with homemade signs. Nate and I take endless photos and selfies with the ice behind us and beside the penalty box. Some people might think it’s pathetic to be so elated over some seats, but when you’ve been a fan for as long as I have, it's exhilarating to be this close.

The chances of reliving this experience are slim, so I’m making the most of every second.

And let’s face it, there’s something undeniably sexy about hockey players.

These big men fighting over a tiny, rubberized disc is what dirty fantasies are made of. And to be this close? I'm in heaven.

My crushes on hockey players began in college when Nate took me to a game during our freshman year, and since then, they’ve been my kryptonite.

And the reason why my heart constantly gets broken.

I have vowed not to give in to temptation anymore because hockey players definitely don’t equal Prince Charming.

Goose bumps erupt across my skin as the lights go up and the iconic notes of their warm-up intro song, Thunderstruck, blast from the sound system.

“Welcome to the ice, your Chicago Thunderrrr!” The announcer's voice booms throughout the arena.

My heart rate goes to a thousand as the players step out onto the ice one by one, knocking over the neatly stacked pucks as they go. I slap my hands against the boards as player after player skates by, my cheeks beginning to ache from the uncontainable grin on my face.

The first one to drop down onto the ice in front of us is Zach Reid. The defenseman looks even bigger in person, and a quick Google search tells me he’s six foot six without skates and one of the heaviest players in the league.

My tongue suddenly feels too big in my mouth. My pulse increasing at a dangerous pace as I watch the players in various positions, absolutely mesmerized by how flexible they are. Even with all the goalie padding on, Elliot Olsen is nearly doing splits.

I fumble with my phone, making sure to capture this on video so I have something to look back on.

Next to skate toward us is the team captain and left winger, Ethan Parkes. His signature broody scowl does nothing to hinder how handsome he is. He’s all dark hair and darker eyes. He leans back against the boards between Nate and me, and we both glance at each other with large grins on our faces.

“So fucking hot!” He mouths, pressing his hand against the bottom of the glass, pretending to squeeze his ass, and rolls his eyes to the back of his head with a moan.

I laugh hard. “You’re ridiculous.”

Nate winks, then presses a kiss to the boards behind Ethan’s head.

We watch the warm-up in contented silence. Our gazes jump from watching them stretch to skating so seamlessly and effortlessly on the ice. Some players are standing off to the side, working on solo puck handling, while others are running different passing drills and shooting pucks at the goalie in the net.

After I take a sip from my beer, hoping it can cool my blazing insides, I set it on the small ledge as Blaine Olsen skates toward us, wearing what could only be described as a mischievous smirk.

I realize my mistake seconds too late, when I realize exactly what that smirk means. The noise from the arena becomes distant, and the panic bursting in my chest keeps me rooted in place. Time seems to slow down as Blaine turns on his skates, jumping up and slamming his shoulder into the plexi. It bows under his weight, causing my beer to fall and spill across the front of my jeans. Nate erupts into laughter beside me, tears beginning to stream down his face.

Glancing down at my now-beer-soaked jeans, I can’t help but laugh. “Oh shit.”

---