Page 3 of The Triple Play

This was a moment. Just a passing fantasy.

No one would ever know.

I had a set to sing. A boyfriend in the bar. A life to pretend was still working.

Even if part of me was already imagining what it would feel like if any of them walked in right now and caught me like this.

But even as I opened the door to head back into the bar, my skin still tingled where I imagined their hands would be.

I checked my phone — thirty minutes until I had to sing. Ten minutes of game time left, and then the puck bunnies and fans would swarm the bar, waiting anxiously for any players that happened to swing by. A decent crowd, at least. But I couldn’t help but feel a little regretful thattheywould be who I was singing for and not a crowd that had actually heard my music and wanted to come specifically for me.

I glanced around the bar but my mind went back to my fantasy.

It wasn’t just about sex. It was about being seen. Wanted. Fought for.

My cheeks heated all over again at the thought. What if one of them walked in tonight? What if I had to face Cole Maxwell after picturing myself on my knees for him?

God. I’d die.

Not that it mattered. Players didn’t notice girls like me. I wasn’t the flirty, glossy type with a fake laugh and a selfie-ready smile. I wasn’t bold. I wasn’t wild.

I was just… Annie.

A good girl.

Who never broke the rules.

Chapter2

Cole

The ref’s whistle cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade to the throat. I barely heard the call—two minutes for roughing—before I was yanked toward the box, my pulse a hammer against my skull. I skated in hard, slammed my ass onto the bench, and tore my helmet off, chucking it against the Plexiglas. It bounced back onto the floor of the box, but I didn’t care. I’d fucked up.

“Fucking seriously?” I shouted at the bench attendant. There were three minutes left in play, and I was stuck in the tiny plexiglas room ofdoomfor two of them, our team unable to put another player on the ice to replace me. Five against six, with an even tie on the scoreboard.

We were screwed.

I ripped off a glove and dragged a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, sucking in deep breaths. Xavi and Colton—everything was on them now. Xavi had to hold the blue line like his life depended on it, and Colton… hell, he had to find a way to bury one. If they scored while we were down a man, I’d never forgive myself.

I pulled my glove back on, picked up my helmet, and rose to my skates, breathing through the anger. Out on the ice, Xavi squared up, already bracing to eat pucks on the kill. Colton adjusted his gloves, shifting on his skates, ready to sprint if he got the chance. I gritted my teeth. “Let’s go, boys! Hold the zone, Xav! Colton, look for the break!” My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. This was too close, too heated, to worry about losing my voice after tonight. Roman, our goalie, looked ready to strike at a moment's notice, and Coach screamed his own orders, half of them lost in the chaos.

The penalty kill was a war, every second stretched thin, every pass by the other team a heartbeat missed. Xavi blocked a shot with his shin, barely flinching as he cleared the puck down the ice. I could hear the bench pounding the boards, the crowd chanting down the seconds that seemed to pass as slowly as fucking tortoise, and I counted each one down with them, my heart pounding in my chest. So close, I was so close to getting out, and the team was holding strong. I refastened my helmet, counting desperately.

Then—blessed relief. My penalty expired. The door flung open, and I exploded onto the ice, legs burning as I cut straight for the play. We were even strength now, and the other team was scrambling to reset. I read it in their hesitation, the half-second delay as they lost their advantage. Colton saw it, too.

The puck skittered loose near center ice, and Colton was there in a flash, snatching it up and tearing down the wing. I drove the net, dragging Viktor, another defenseman, with me, giving him space. But Xavi was there in a flash instead, and he cut inside, pulled back, and ripped a shot?—

Red light. Goal horn.

The rink erupted. Our bench emptied onto the ice. Xavi slammed into me, shouting, and Colton—grinning, fists pumping—was buried under the pile of bodies. I sucked in a breath, chest heaving. We’d sealed it. I wasn’t the hero tonight, but I didn’t need to be. We’d won.

But I was still angry at myself for fucking up.

Of course, the referee hadn’t seen what had led up to me shoving Trudeux, the other team’s defense, into the boards — my luck wasn’t that good. They hadn’t seen the way his skate had purposely hooked onto mine to trip me up, hadn’t seen the split-second decision I’d had to make to shove him off of me, albeit reckless and stupid and worthy of a penalty. I wasn’t one quick to anger, but when it came to hockey, the heat came out.

Xavi’s excited form jumped childishly against me, and I couldn’t help but crack a grin, my irritation on the back burner. “We fucking won!” he shouted over and over, the words muffled from his mouth guard, his damp black hair clinging around his face beneath the helmet.

Even Colton was grinning as he slipped out from the pile-up on the ice, leaving Seb and Viktor on the ground and using his gloves to wipe the snow from his jersey. “I wasthis closeto punching you when this was over,” he laughed, holding up a gloved hand to simulate the smallest amount possible. “You justhadto get a penalty.”

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