Page 8 of Trade Deadline

I’m ridiculous. Blushing like a teenager. But I can’t tear my eyes away as he runs the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, catching a stray drop of water.

“What are you waiting for?” Nate's voice breaks the moment.

I turn to my friend, who is waving my phone. “Get a photo! The five minutes will be up before you know it.”

I take my phone from him and swipe my finger across the screen to my camera, changing it to selfie mode then hold it up high enough to get both myself and Blaine in the shot. He must see me in his peripheral vision because he scoots closer on the bench until his shoulder is pressed up against the plexi, and this time gives me a jaw-dropping smile. I know I’m blushing even harder, but I take a few photos before dropping my phone into my lap. When I glance up, he’s still looking at me. His gray eyes have turned dark, but it only lasts a few moments until his attention is torn away as Ethan attempts another shot on goal.

“Why are the hot ones so unattainable?” I sigh.

Blaine Olsen is no stranger when it comes to being featured on the bunny blogs. There seems to be an endless supply of girls sharing bedtime stories of their nights with the center.

“He would be the perfect candidate to get you back in the saddle though.” Nate nudges me with his elbow. “You gotta start living again. Find a hottie to help you destress and distract you from everything. I bet he would be down to do just that.”

I shake my head.

Only in my wildest dreams.

Three

Blaine

“Great game, boys! Fuckin’A!” Ethan claps his hands.

The locker room fills with back pats and ass slaps as we strip out of our gear. Someone connects their phone to the built-in sound system, and within seconds, our standard post-W playlist is blaring through the speakers. Gloves are thrown in the air, along with sweaty jerseys and the odd sock, in celebration. Some teams might not celebrate a win like we do, but it’s become a tradition.

It helps keep morale up throughout the season, plus a hard-fought win against St. Louis is fucking fantastic. It was a close call to overtime, but I managed to pocket one in the top left corner with twelve seconds left in the third.

Earlier today, after morning skate, I showered before returning to Coach Harris’s office, like a kid being sent to the principal’s office. When I got there, I found Hayden waiting outside, dark shadows under his eyes, which only caused my guilt to grow. They ordered me not to engage with any puck bunnies, hookup apps, or any form of distraction that would take my focus away from hockey.

“I want you to succeed, Blaine. I know what it’s like to have temptation dangled under your nose like a carrot. I’ve lived it, remember? Breathed it. But you’re better than this. Take this as your final warning, and don’t let yourself be caught in their trap,” Hayden told me once Coach dismissed us.

Hayden had played for Boston for twelve years before he retired six years ago from an ACL injury. Even though he was the one all the girls wanted to fuck, and the one guys wanted to be, including me, he managed to stay on the right side of the press.

Like I need to now.

Once our post-W dance and singalong is over, we stand in front of our cubbies, each of us in various stages of undress, when Ethan steps up to award our “player of the game”.

“That win was very well deserved, boys. We played hard, we fought hard, but I’m sure you will agree that the player of the game tonight was the one who stepped in when his brother was in need and still managed to sink two in the net… Blaine, congrats, man.” Ethan heads toward me and hands over the “award”, which is a costume helmet based on Odin’s.

I give anaw-shucksgrin as I put it on my head. The boys cheer and clap, and I bend at the hips with my arms out wide, bowing like I’m center stage.

“Thanks, Cap. You know I’ll have every one of your backs. Nobody touches my guys. Each one of you gave it your all out there, so let's keep that up. But tonight, let’s hit up Gino’s, celebrate in style, and get ready to kick some Detroit ass!”

After a final cheer, I place the headpiece on top of my cubby. Some of the guys head off to do press while the rest of us use the bikes to cool down before taking a shower and getting ready to celebrate at our favorite bar.

The moment we step through the doors to Gino’s, we’re surrounded by fans congratulating us on our win. A sea of black and red jerseys fills the space from wall to wall.

“That uppercut on DeLuca was incredible!” One fan slaps me on the shoulder, a wide grin across his face.

“Thanks,” I answer back, blowing on my knuckles and rubbing them against my shirt. They’re bruised as fuck, but it was worth it. I meant what I said in the locker room—nobody touches my teammates, let alone my brother. “I hope he feels it tomorrow.”

I leave the fan laughing and make my way through the crowd toward the bar.

I like Gino’s.

A family-run bar that's filled with sports memorabilia—hockey, football, baseball—you name a sport, and it will have some form of history displayed on the walls here.

It’s a large open space, a sectioned-off area of a converted warehouse; exposed brick, high ceilings with lighting hanging down from the metal beams casting a warm glow. There’s also this silent agreement that fans can drink here on game nights on the basis that we can hang out here without being swamped.

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