Page 67 of Trade Deadline

“Did you see that hit from DeLuca?” Kendrick lets out a low whistle. “I don't know how that dude hasn’t received a suspension; the guy’s dangerous.”

“It makes me question how far it’s gotta go before something’s done.” Ethan shakes his head. “I would hate to see someone get badly hurt for him to receive the ban he’s overdue.”

“Are you excited to play against your bro tomorrow?” Mitch asks Zach around a mouthful of fries.

Zach gives a small shrug. “Yeah, I guess so. His teammates are dicks, though.”

“Amen to that,” I scoff.

We high-five across the table.

“He isn’t happy there at the moment; there's some internal drama going on, and I think his coach is worried, too, because he'll be an unrestricted free agent at the end of next season, and he doesn’t want to lose Brody.”

“It would be super cool if he came here.” Mitch’s eyes go comically wide. “Team of bros.”

“No way.” Zach quickly shakes his head. “I love my brother, but we’re better separated. We clash too much, and it’s not good for team dynamics when you’ve got two players constantly at each other's throats.”

“Talking about teammates being at each other's throats, did you see Petford giving the evil eye at Peyton earlier when he was talking about Katy?” Elliot chimes in. He’s got sauce all around his mouth, even a bit on his forehead. I’ve no idea how my brother can rival a toddler with the mess he gets into when he eats. “He was looking at him like he had kicked his dog.”

“Yeah, I have no idea what that’s all about.” I sigh.

“Do you think he’s just jealous? I mean, who would want to marryhim? The guy's a douche canoe,” Mitch says.

Ethan slaps his hand around the back of Mitch’s head. “You don’t talk like that about your teammates, no matter what their problem is. I’ll deal with it.”

From Ethan’s tone, he’s putting an end to the conversation, and while I trust him to dissolve any bad blood before it can escalate, there's something about Petford that makes me uneasy.

One bad apple can make a bad bunch, and Petford is just that.

Nobody trusts him on the ice. He’s unpredictable and doesn’t seem to work well with his linemates, no matter how hard Coach tries.

Let's just hope he pulls his head out of his ass soon, because we can’t afford to make any mistakes. The playoffs are in our sights, and we can’t allow one person to diminish all the hard work we’ve put in this season.

* * *

Hopping from skate to skate,I drop down into a few squats to keep my thighs warm. At the end of the tunnel, bright lights glisten against the ice, and that's our cue. It’s warm-up time.

We slap hands and trade fist bumps and ass slaps as we make our way down the tunnel. “Thunderstruck” blares throughout the arena’s sound system, and fans cheer and bang their palms against the boards when we jump onto the ice.

If there’s one feeling I’d like to bottle up for others to experience, it would be this.

The fan's sheer adrenaline and excitement. Their passion, their love for the sport, for the team. Their need for a win is just as prominent as our own.

It makes me feel alive, and I’m the luckiest motherfucker in the world to be able to live my dream—to play my favorite sport with my best friends in the best league.

Pucks are knocked off the bench wall, and I take one on my stick, bouncing it a few times on the blade before shooting it at the empty net. I run through my routine; three laps clockwise, behind the goal, then take a slap shot. I finish it off by skating to the blue line to stretch. Resting my stick down on the ice in front of me, I get down onto my knees in a frog pose to stretch my groin, kicking my legs out to stretch my hips, then lay on my back to work on stretching my glutes.

When I hop back onto my skates, I scan the crowd to look for the face that has been at the forefront of my mind for the last three weeks, and the second I see him, I skate over to the boards. It's like deja vu. I pick up some speed, then turn on my blades, slamming my body sideways into the boards. He laughs, tipping his head back and exposing that silky-smooth column of his throat that’s begging for my lips.

I want to mark him as mine.

Because he is.

I texted him yesterday morning to let him know I’d put two tickets at will call for him, but he wasn’t sure whether he was going to make it with Jacob still sick. He’s been manning the bakery single-handedly the last few days, with Nate stepping in to help on occasion to ease some of the pressure.

As much as I want to hate the guy for being able to spend more time with Alex than me, I’ve got to hand it to him: he's a solid friend.

I also feel a tiny bit guilty that since my appearance in the hot-as-fuck apron the other day, word has spread, and Alex said there’s been an actual line of people down the street waiting to get their hands on the baked goodies.

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