Page 7 of Trade Deadline

I’d heard about people being soaked when their own drink gets knocked over by a player, but I never would have imagined it happening to me.

Regardless of the fact I’ve never been so embarrassed as I am right now, I kinda like it.

But that may be more to do with the guy than anything else.

Looking back up at Blaine, the stare in his light gray eyes is intense, his wicked grin doing nothing but adding kerosene to the fire that is currently burning inside me. He flicks a puck up over the boards, but I'm so enthralled that it drops to the ground at my feet.

Our eyes remain locked in a heated stare. His gaze is a heady mix of determination and desire, and with all his focus on me, it’s like the thousands of people in the arena have disappeared and it’s just the two of us.

I’m pretty sure my poor little heart stops beating.

If I die right now, surrounded by hot hockey men, I’ll die a very, very happy guy.

He winks, a playful grin on his full lips, and I can’t help but wonder what he’d look like wearing only that grin, but I quickly shake those thoughts away as my face heats.

“Whoa, talk about an eye fuck,” Nate says under his breath as Blaine turns and skates away, hitting puck after puck into the net where his twin brother, Elliot, tends the goal. Nate hands over the puck that landed at my feet. “I’ve heard he’s a bit of a playboy, so maybe he can help you destress.” He winks.

As I stare at the solid rubber disc in my hand, my thoughts running wild at the possibility. It would no doubt be the hottest night of my life, but Blaine and I are worlds apart. I take my eyes off the godlike human to face my best friend.

Smoothing both my hands around his head, I check for any possible injuries. “Are you okay? Did the puck hit you on the head and make you delirious?” I pat his chest in equal measure before shaking my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. Men like that are unattainable, and how do you know he’s into guys?”

I glance over my shoulder at some super pretty, petite girls a few rows behind and let out a defeated sigh. “They have a type, you know that. I don’t fall under that bracket.”

The buzzer sounds, indicating the end of warm-up, and we watch the players continue to hit pucks into the net, ignoring the shouts telling them to leave the ice so the Zamboni can resurface.

The last one to leave the ice is Blaine, and when he reaches the small door to the home bench, he looks over his shoulder in my direction. Our eyes lock once again, the corner of his lips tilting in a teasing smirk before he winks and jumps over the small ledge, disappearing down the tunnel.

“You could’ve fooled me if it wasn’t for the way he was pretty much undressing you with his eyes.” Nate says with a smirk.

* * *

This game is intense.

St. Louis is out for blood, determination written across every player's face as they give hit after heavy hit to try and weaken Thunder’s offense. The atmosphere in the arena is wild when the puck drops in the third period, the score currently tied two-two.

Thunder must have received a grilling from their head coach during the intermission, as they win the face off and are instantly on the attack. Before St. Louis can even react, Ethan Parkes slips one between the goalies’ legs nine seconds into the period. The crowd erupts and the goal horn blasts. My eyes find Blaine, watching him skate past the bench, tapping gloves with his teammates before going to center ice to line up for the next face off.

But even with the lead in hand, the pressure doesn’t ease up.

As play continues, the Thunder are all over them like a bad rash, causing St. Louis to miss several scoring chances. Elliot is on fire in front of the net, his arms and legs are shooting in every direction, blocking every shot. He covers the puck with his glove and the official blows the whistle. Elliot scoops up the puck with his glove and flicks the puck over to the official. As the official catches it, one of the St. Louis players aggressively shoves Elliot, causing him to lose his balance and fall back awkwardly into the pipes.

Within an instant, Blaine drops his gloves and stick. He grabs a fistful of the offender's jersey and slams his other fist into the guy’s face. The air is filled with electricity as the crowd goes wild. Blaine gets hit a few times, one catching his lip and drawing blood. After breaking up the fight the ref gives them both a penalty. It’s only when he’s heading this way that I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

Rivulets of sweat drip down Blaine’s face as he pulls off his helmet and takes a seat in the penalty box.

“You think you’re cool, bud? Cheap shot going after my brother, ya fuckin’ nerd.” He shouts to the St. Louis d-man, then shakes his head, blood spilling from his busted lip onto his jersey before he wipes his face on a towel. I’m in a trance, watching it happen almost in slow-motion as Blaine grabs a bottle to squirt water into his mouth, and then squirts it over his face and hair.

“Chicago, number eighty, five minutes for fighting,” the referee announces.

The crowd boos in response, then cheers when the ref announces two plus five minutes for St, Louis for instigating and fighting—essentially, for being a douchebag. Blaine grins at their reaction, then shakes his head again, causing water to spray everywhere like a wet dog, and wipes his face once more with the towel.

“He’s so fucking hot,” I mumble under my breath.

His thick, solid neck glistens with sweat, droplets trailing down and disappearing under the collar of his jersey. He runs his fingers through his hair, slicking it back, showcasing his billboard-worthy face.

He’s rocking a few days’ worth of stubble, slightly lighter than his hair, a crooked nose from being broken more than once, no doubt. It takes me a few moments to realize he’s caught me staring. That smug grin is back, causing my face to heat again.

Fuck.

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