Page 70 of Pucking the Grump

Martha will be here to save him with crafts and cookies before too long.

And I’ll be sure to thank him properly for his sweet intervention as soon as we’re cleared to do more than hand stuff. We’ve been extra careful the past few days in the name of helping Stone heal as quickly as possible, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t already counting the days until his next scan.

Until I can bang my gorgeous man again and show him with every kiss, every touch, how much I love him.

Even when he’s in meddling mode.

Chapter 19

Stone

Seven months later…

* * *

The visiting team locker room at Climate Pledge Arena has a smell all its own—a potent mixture of ancient sweat, mildew, cheap cleaning products, and carpet deodorizer that sits solidly at the corner of Violet-Scented Poison Lane and Week-Old Vomit Drive.

Being intimately acquainted with the far swankier home locker room from my years playing for Seattle, the stink is borderline offensive.

Which is perfect for a night like this.

It’s an underdog smell, the kind that sends bile and rage surging through your chest, even before your coach makes it down from the ice to give one final “get your heads out of your asses” speech.

Not that we need one of those tonight.

We’re down 3-1 heading into the third period of Game Six against the Storm—mine and Tank’s old team—but the energy in our cramped quarters crackles with electricity and a rip-a-fucker’s-throat-open-with-your-teeth level of determination. The Badgers are ready to tear up some ice and make history.

Hell, we’ve been making history all year. These men haven’t let me down. My final season has also been my highest scoring, thanks largely to the locked-in teamwork of the players around me.

Glancing around at them, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia tightens my throat.

This is it, the last time I’ll watch Tank do his kinky-looking frog stretches, loosening up his hips to defend our net at all costs. The last time I’ll catch Grammercy pacing near the door, muttering prayers to whatever patron saint his mama told him watches out for hockey players. The last time Nowicki will bump my fist on his way past the bench, or Justin will blast a finger-whistle through the locker room to get our attention.

I’m so emotional, the piercing sound only makes me flinch half as much as it usually would as I turn to face our fearless leader.

Justin is less upbeat after getting scored on twice last period, but the fire in his eyes leaves no doubt that he thinks we can still lock this series win down tonight.

“Listen up, Badger fam,” he shouts, shutting down the chatter from the benches. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking fuck, Cruise, we’re down by two, and those Seattle motherfuckers think they’re on a roll now. This sucks ass. But this is exactly where we want to be. You know why?”

“Because they’re going to get cocky now,” Grammercy says. “Hell, they’re already cocky. If we’d had fifteen more seconds, I would have scored on them again. They suffer from Premature Celebration Syndrome.”

Justin thrusts an approving finger at the rookie’s chest. “Bingo, and there’s only one thing worse than premature celebration.” His eyes glitter with mischief as he adds, “Not that I would know anything about that personally, but Nowicki’s wife told me it’s very upsetting.”

Nowicki laughs as he calls back, “Keep it up, Cruise, and I’ll tell Diana you’re bullying me again, and you know how scary she is.”

Justin mock-shudders. “No lies detected. God protect us all from her tiny blond wrath. Speaking of wrath, let’s keep that simmering nice and low. Don’t let them provoke you. We stay cool, we stay focused, and the second we see them counting their win before the final buzzer, we pounce.”

“But feel free to talk shit to Gauthier in French if you know any,” Tank rumbles from where he’s now leaning against one of the vintage lockers. I told him about how Remy’s team shit-talks in Portuguese, and we’ve been employing the strategy in various languages ever since. “Trips him up every time.”

“Je vais lui dire que c’est un hostie de bouetteux avec un gros front de freak,” Grammercy babbles in a rush, clarifying when we all turn wide-eyed looks his way. “What? I told you, I’m Cajun. Half my family speaks French. I said your ass is lame and you have a big, freaky forehead.”

Justin nods eagerly. “Yes, perfect. He does have a freakishly large forehead.”

“You could also call out his breath,” Coach Lauder says, breezing into the room from the tunnel. “It’s so foul, I could smell it through the glass during the last scrim.”

Grammercy nods. “On it, Coach.”

“Good.” A hint of a smile softens Coach’s stern expression. He’s still a hard-ass, but has mellowed out a lot this year. According to Remy, he’s finally in therapy, and working through all the emotional shit he’s been shoving down for years has been good for him.

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