Page 9 of Slap Shot Daddies

“Shit,” I whisper to myself, stripping off my exam gloves. The thin latex snaps against my skin, echoing in the quiet room as I toss them into the bin.

My shift at the ice rink looms ahead, and I still need to hustle through a shower, change into my uniform, and grab something more substantial than the stale peanut butter crackers languishing in the breakroom.

I snatch up my keys, the metal cool and reassuring in my grip, and cast one last glance at Margo and King, their eyes following my hurried movements, before I make a beeline for the exit.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon to the east.

As I maneuver into the parking lot of the sprawling Minnesota Marauders ice hockey arena, my fingers constrict around the leather steering wheel and my heart executes an erratic rhythm in my chest.

Through the windshield, I catch sight of a cluster of players gathered near the entrance, their warm breath forming visible clouds in the crisp morning air, their laughter echoing across the otherwise silent expanse of the lot.

They’re shoving each other playfully, engaging in boisterous roughhousing like oversized children, the sense of camaraderie among them almost palpably infectious.

And then, my stomach lurches.

Amidst them, towering over the rest, ishim.

I freeze, a wave of heat surging up my neck despite the biting chill outside.

The man I had hooked up with is right there, engaged in laughter, exchanging jokes, blissfully unaware that I’m sitting mere yards away in my car, immobilized by a sudden rush of anxiety.

Damn it.

I hadn’t anticipated encountering him again so soon. Or ever, if things had gone my way.

I thought it was just a fleeting encounter, a reckless decision spurred by the effervescence of the drinks and the way his eyes had lingered on me, as though I were something he wanted to savor.

But then I saw the hockey stick in his room the next morning and I had a feeling…

And here he is.

I slide lower in my seat. My mind races, conjuring up a cascade of worst-case scenarios.

What if he spots me?

What if he cracks some inappropriate joke in front of his friends?

What if this jeopardizes my professional standing.

I force myself to swallow the rising panic, drawing a deep, steadying breath. This is manageable. I just need to maintain my professionalism.

We can navigate through this.

I remain seated in my car, peering through the windshield, my gaze fixed on them as I wait for the opportune moment when they will vanish indoors, allowing me to slip in unnoticed.

My attention ought to be on my job, specifically the team macaws that require my care and observation.

Yet, I find myself captivated by the sight before me: three strikingly handsome, towering men, each clad in their teamjackets and workout gear, exuding an aura that seems to have leapt straight from the pages of my favorite steamy romance novels.

Their athletic frames and confident strides command attention, leaving me momentarily entranced.

It’s truly unfair, isn't it? How do men like this even exist in the world?

They exude an aura of mischief, but the kind that draws you in rather than pushes you away.

There's Braden, the audacious Irish charmer whose sharp green eyes seem to pierce right through you, accentuated by an easy grin that suggests he knows more than he lets on. Black hair, mint green eyes, it’s like he stepped off the set ofBoondock Saintsor something.

Then there's Reggie, the fiery, redheaded Scottish powerhouse, a whirlwind of muscle and energy, as if he’s perpetually in motion, never pausing for a moment. Even from here I can hear his thick accent floating through the air.

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