Page 11 of Speed

I sat there for about ten minutes, working on erasing the last half hour from my memory banks. Yeah, there was no eraser big enough to erase Brody Vance from my head.

Maybe I needed a scrub brush and some bleach…

* * *

The only goodthing about the first day of training camp was that I was too busy to wallow about last night’s hookup with Brody.

We’d been put through rigorous medical evaluations and physical testing. Nothing quite occupied my mind like aerobic skates, bench press, broad jump, and vertical jump tests. Those joys had been followed by a catered lunch at the new Railers training facility in Carlisle. Sadly, even though the state-of-the-art rink was right across the street from a Dairy Queen, we were discouraged from sneaking over to gorge on ice cream. The lunch was delicious and healthy, with tons of chicken, pasta, some salmon and rice dishes, veggie soup, fruits, and vegetables. My special dietary needs were taken seriously, so I could enjoy a great meal with the guys, a crucial part of starting the bonding process. I sat with some vets who were happy to chat with me to catch up on what my dads were doing now. A couple of younger players joined us, and Brody crept into my thoughts from time to time, but I shoved him back into the dark closet he was hiding in, for now.

There was too much to focus on to let some sexy-as-hell racer with his head stuck in clouds of denial mess with me. I checked my sugar after lunch, was pleased, and stopped super-quick on the way to my first team scrimmage to visit with the team dietician. Steve Figg was a nice guy, youngish, and into ensuring that I ate well. Not that I didn’t all the time, but Steve was dedicated to me and my diet. Which I thanked him for repeatedly. I was still tempted to sneak across the road. The siren song of a thick milkshake was loud.

I didn’t, though. I geared up, taking a moment to stand in the locker room with all kinds of chaos erupting around me, staring down at the Railers sweater I wore. It was a dark gray one, for offensive players during scrimmages, but it was still an official jersey. I snuck a photo of myself in it, then sent it to my sibs, Pops and Dad, and Rachel. My ex hit me with a GIF with a kitten wearing headphones saying I rocked. My fathers were elated. They could have come down to watch, but they didn’t want to steal any of the attention from the press. It was my day, or so they said, and so they stayed home. It killed them, but they did. My sisters all sent wordy replies I would answer later. The team was hitting the ice. I’d been warned that Coach Morin did not tolerate tardiness, so I was out there with the rest of the team and ready for my first practice.

The training facility wasn’t the East River Arena by any stretch of the imagination, but it felt like it when I skated up to face off against Jack O’Leary, the oldest player on the team at thirty-seven. He’d played for several teams in his long career but was now looking to retire from the Railers when his contract expired in two years.

“Pay attention, rookie,” he teased as Joe Bains, the associate coach, dropped the puck to start a light game between grays and blues.

“You pay attention, sir,” I countered, then pounced on the puck as soon as it hit the ice.

I sent it zipping to one of the two wingers I’d been paired with. Nikolai Petrov was a year older than me, a quick little Russian with a crazy one-timer shot. On my other wing was Mason Blake, a sturdy winger who’d been with the Railers for four years. Nikolai rocketed down the ice, Blake and me on his heels, to take a blistering shot on the blue goalie, Lukas Reinhardt. Lukas got his shoulder up to block the shot. The puck fell to the ice in front of the goalie. I dove at it, stick out, and poke-checked it between Reinhardt’s legs into the net.

“Good poking!” Nikolai bellowed as he gave me a hand up.

The rest of my line congratulated me–helmet pats, back slaps, and compliments–on giving it my all. Everything was loosey-goosey, giving the zebras on the ice with us little to do. That would change as the scrimmages intensified.

On my way back to the bench for some water, Old Man O’Leary, as the vets called him, skated up to me. He put a big, gloved hand on my shoulder.

“Guess I have someone gunning for my job,” he joked while giving my shoulder a pat.

“Maybe, sir,” I replied with a smile that made the vet chuckle.

“You can drop thatsirshit,” he huffed in mock offense.

“Okay, ma’am.”

The rest of my line howled. Even a few coaches snickered.

Jack palmed my face playfully, then skated off, shouting to the other players that we had a hot shot in the ranks.

I wasn’t sure how hot I was, given the guy I’d shared a steaming make-out slash hand-job session with had run from the room as though he’d been sucking face with Nosferatu—the old 1920’s vamp, not the newer ones.

Crap. There was Brody again, sneaking into my thoughts. Guess I needed to hockey harder to keep him out of my head. O’Leary and I had the whole afternoon to square off. Surely, that would be enough to drive the racer out of my head for good.

FIVE

Brody

I woke with a pounding headache—notthe aneurysm kind, thank God, but the garden-variety hangover kind. Still, it wasn’t the best start to the day.

Last night was a blur of sensations I couldn’t shake, no matter how hard I tried. Noah had been… unexpected. Everything about him—the way he moved, the sounds he made, the softness of his lips—was seared into my memory like a brand.

The kiss had been electric, his mouth warm and eager, tasting of champagne and something sweeter. When I’d tunneled my hands into his curls, it was like finding the anchor I didn’t know I’d been searching for. His hair was as thick and silky as I’d imagined, and the way his breath hitched when my fingers tightened… God, it had been perfect.

I could still hear the sounds he made, quiet gasps breaking free as if he couldn’t hold them back, each one more intoxicating than the last. I know it was lust, but in those moments, it felt as if the rest of the world had disappeared.

For a few stolen minutes, everything was simple. Everything made sense. And I couldn’t stop replaying it, craving it, even as I tried to tell myself it had been a mistake.

But shit, what the hell had I been thinking?

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