Page 18 of One Goal in Mind

I thrust the vibrator inside me one final time as I shatter, not caring that my mewling is far from sexy. My pussy flutters around the vibe, and I turn down the intensity, struggling to catch my breath. I blink a few times, my vision is spotty, and my entire body is both on fire and shivering. Russ grits out a few swears, and I can’t help my smile. We may have ruined our friendship tonight, but in this moment, I couldn’t care less.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out with a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve come that hard in a long time.”

I can’t help but chuckle, savouring my afterglow. “Same.”

“I know you can take another.”

“I have to be up early tomorrow,” I sigh. I’ll likely touch myself in bed, but he certainly doesn’t need to know that. “Are… are we going to talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about? You know where I stand. I’m yours, Red. However you want me.”

My heart swells and shatters at his admission, and I can’t bring myself to admit the truth—I want more than what we have, but I’m too scared of getting hurt. There are too many variables. What we have is easy—or at least, it was until tonight. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Of course. Sleep well, beautiful.”

I’m grateful for the smile in his voice. We hang up, and I finally say the words he deserves to hear, even if it’s only to my empty bathroom—I love you.

CHAPTER 8

RUSS

Beav has been on my ass all day. I’ve kept my friendship—relationship, or whatever the hell this is—with Scarlett a secret from him these past few months. Knowing I’ll be seeing her tonight, I haven’t been able to wipe the stupid smile off my face since I woke up. He can give me shit all he wants, I couldn’t care less. It’s not like he isn’t a ball of nerves. Poor guy has also been pining after a girl he had one night with.

The moment my skates hit the ice, the roars in the arena echo, making my heart swell. I allow myself a final glance at the Québec City medical staff and find my girl’s eyes on me. While she’s not cheering, her wide grin is undeniable, even from here. Beav taps his helmet to mine and shouts, “We’ve got this,” before preparing for puck drop.

For the first five minutes, I only have to deflect one shot. Beav and Haas are on fire tonight, keeping Québec busy. We pull off the ice for it to be resurfaced, and as I’m about to return, my message for Scarlett appears on the jumbotron:

CAN’T WAIT FOR TONIGHT, RED!

FROM YOUR BESTIE

Her hand flies to her mouth before her eyes meet mine. She looks away briefly, chuckling to herself, then her gaze snaps back to me. It’s as if the entire arena fades away—there’s only her. My cheesy rom-com moment is record-scratched harder than an early nineties hip-hop track.

Number Nine, Smith.

He claps Scarlett’s ass before hopping over the divider. He touched what’s mine. More than that, she didn’t ask for it.

The fucking audacity.

As everyone piles onto the ice, I make a beeline for the fucker, the only sound of my heart racing against my chest. The entire arena fades away as I pull down my mask and knock into Smith. No one stops me—or at least I don’t think they do. I whack my stick against his cheek before he can react, and the sound it makes—like the crack of a baseball bat hitting a fastball—sends a sick satisfaction through me. He crumples to the ground, but I’m not done. I lift my skate, aiming for his throat. I’m pulled away from him, and through the ringing in my ears, someone says, “He’s not worth it.” Except this asshole is absolutely worth it. I try to wriggle out of their hold, needing another shot.

“Campbell, listen to me, man. They’re going to eject you if you?—”

I charge at him again, but the fucking padding throws off my aim, and my skate misses Smith’s throat by several inches. There’s a blur of white and black in my vision, the faint sounds of whistles blowing, and someone shouting, “You’re done, Thirty-Five.”

It takes me several seconds to process his words as someone ushers me off the ice. The entire arena is filled with boos and chants of“Let him play!”

The moment I reach the coaching staff, all of them are shouting at me. I lock eyes with Coach North and growl, “Nine slapped your sister’s ass. I… I’m sorry, Coach.” He gives me an empathetic nod and helps me out of some of my gear as he leads me to the locker rooms.

“Thank you,” he mutters, low and steady. “I saw it happen. While Scar can protect herself, I’ll make sure his life’s a living hell after what he did.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I sigh, the entire interaction flooding back to me. If it wasn’t for the extra gear, I would’ve killed him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Let’s get you out of here before press. I’ll take care of it.” His steady, reassuring voice calms me.

Once I’m changed into sweatpants and a hoodie, security escorts me to my car. I hesitate—I shouldn’t be driving—and ask one of the attendants to order a rideshare. I’ll get my car in the morning. Within five minutes, an unmarked sedan pulls up. Not a brand-name service.

“Mr. Campbell, my name is Trevor. I’ll be your driver for the evening.” I glance back at security, and they nod. I blow out a long breath and I slide into the backseat, hating I’m being chauffeured, even if it’s the safest option. If his front windows were tinted, I could sit in the front with him. He could help me forget what happened by talking about anything from hockey to his family to how we’ve had drier weather than normal. Instead, I’m on time-out. I lost my shit on a player for beinginappropriate with a woman. She’s part of his team, for fuck’s sake. If I’m being honest with myself, I still would’ve lost my shit on him—even if it wasn’t Scarlett. Group therapy is going to be a joy on Monday.

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