Page 48 of Power Forward

His kisses travel up along my jaw before he slants his mouth over mine.

“Mm,” he murmurs against my lips.

We’re both on high alert for the sound of footsteps as he pushes his tongue into my mouth, and I let out a quietmoan. There’s something so hot about stealing kisses from him. A high ecstasy that we might be caught. Not that I want us to be caught because that’ll cause a lot of confusion, but the thought of it goes straight to my balls.

“Wanna shower again when the kids have gone to bed?” I whisper.

“You bet.” He lifts his head, and his blue eyes are dark with heat. “I cannot wait for LA. I hope you’re ready for it.”

And while I’m so ready to get my hands on Jackson’s naked body again, there’s a pool of dread in my stomach at the conversation we’ll need to have before we do anything.

Chapter Seventeen

Jackson

The tension is palpable as we trudge down the tunnel for the first intermission. LA are holding no punches tonight, and I mean that quite literally. Peyton ended up dropping the gloves four minutes into the first period after Zach was cross-checked and it went uncalled by the refs.

It seems they’ve come out with a point to prove tonight, and we’re the unlucky suspects because we’re currently down by three goals.

We take a seat in our designated stalls, and Coach Harris stalks into the locker room. He paces the floor, biting on the side of his thumb. The hard set of his jaw tells me he’s struggling to rein in his frustration.

“What the fuck happened out there?” he spits, but we all know not to answer back. We don’t have any acceptable excuse for our piss-poor performance. “They took eighteen shots on goal.Eighteen. And we had fucking six.” He turns slowly, making sure to look every single one of us in the eye. “Our rebounds are sloppy as fuck. We don’t look like theteam who won the Cup last year. We’ve been on a three-game losing streak since we came back from the holiday, and I don’t want tonight to be a fourth. We need to stay out of the box—” He gives a pointed stare to Blaine and Peyton, who have already taken three penalties between them so far. “—and we need to get pucks into the back of the net. I’m so fucking tired of losing, so when we get back out there, you better bring your A game. Be the team I know you are, and don’t give them something to laugh about.”

At that, he storms out of the locker room, door slamming shut in his wake. Nobody dares to speak. The mood is sullen, and we keep our eyes down. Some retape their sticks, and I head to the bathrooms to do my business.

I can’t believe Hayden is witnessing this game. He flew back to LA a few days ago so he could attend his appointment with his therapist, and it’s felt like weeks since I’ve seen him. Weirdly enough, the house feels empty without him in it. To the point the kids have noticed it feels different without him. They adore him, more than I could’ve imagined, and they’ve asked when he’s coming back multiple times a day since he left.

And as much as I love them, I’m glad I get to have him to myself tonight. Even if I am going to be full of embarrassment if we don’t sort ourselves out and start scoring some goals.

When we head back onto the ice for the second period, it’s a hard battle to take possession. Elliot stops shot after shot. I manage to get my stick on a few following the rebound, hitting it away from the net. Zach dumps the puck into the offensive zone, and it’s a quick race to beat LA’s D-man toreach the puck first. I curve around the net, slapping the puck to Blaine, who passes it to Peyton. He takes a shot, but their winger intercepts. It goes on like that for several minutes. The boys try desperately to take possession. So much so that Zach ends up with a two-minute penalty for tripping, and the penalty kill is painful to watch from the bench. We’re like sitting ducks as an LA forward gets on a breakaway. Elliot’s eagle eyes track the puck, but the forward sinks it into the net with a lightning-fast move, giving LA the advantage at 4-0.

“These guys are pissing me off,” Blaine grunts as he drops down onto the bench beside me. He picks up his bottle and squirts some water into his mouth before slamming it back into the holder. “Like, fucking stop with the fucking poke check, fucking ding-dongs.”

Normally I’d laugh at his frustrated outbursts, but I’m getting pissed off too.

I manage to score a goal before the buzzer, and when we head out for the third period, Coach pulls Elliot and puts Lindholm in. I glance over to Elliot, who’s slumped on the bench and removes his mask. No goalie likes to be pulled, and defeat is written all over his face. It’s not his fault, but he won’t see it that way. He’ll see that he let in four goals, and he’s the reason we’re losing the game.

But the real reason is us. There’s more than just him out there.

“Come on, boys.” I slap the boards, hoping to gear up some momentum. “We didn’t come here to lose. The shit streak ends here.”

There are some grunts in agreement, but I don’t let it faze me.

The whistle blows with a penalty on LA for holding, and I jump over the boards for the power play.

“Let’s fucking do this!” Peyton shouts.

My teeth clench in frustration as I watch for the puck drop. Blaine wins the face-off, slapping the puck over to me. I take the puck into our defensive zone and around the back of the net before passing it over to Peyton. We make our way up into the neutral zone. Peyton passes to Blaine, and I angle myself to the right of the net, watching out of the corner of my eye as one of LA’s defensemen tries to guess my next move. The pass from Blaine connects, and I raise my stick, making it look like I’m about to take a shot, but instead, I poke the puck between my skates, then take a backhander. The puck flies past the waiting defenseman and into the back of the net.

Fuckingfinally!

I don’t feel like celebrating because we’re still down by two, but I accept the back pats and cheers and head back toward the bench.

When there are two minutes left in the third, Coach pulls Lindholm for an extra forward, and Blaine puts another on the board with a stellar Michigan goal. Lindholm remains on the bench for the final thirty seconds, and desperation is pouring off us in waves. Zach manages to close the gap. I’m ready, waiting by the crease. An LA defenseman shoves me in the back, but I hold my ground so I’m not on the blue. Zach takes a risky slap shot from the blue line and sinks the puck in the bottom left corner, sending us into overtime.

“Holy fucking shit!” Peyton beams as we skate back tothe bench to get ready for overtime. “Reidsy, that was a beauty. I think I have a boner.”

Zach chuckles quietly under his breath, squirting water into his mouth. But my attention latches onto Elliot, who’s sitting silently in the corner. I skate over with my bottle in hand and tap my gloves on the board in front of him.

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