Page 4 of Pucking Forbidden

“Yep.”

“You coming out with us tonight?” Diego waggles his brows suggestively. “There will be bunnies all over the place.”

“Hell no.” My upper lip curls in disgust. The last thing I want to do tonight is deal with half the team chasing puck bunnies like it’s the last time they’ll ever get laid. Actually, that’s the last thing I want to do…ever. But I’m absolutely not feeling it right now.

“One of these days, we’re going to get you laid, Silvestri,” Diego says like he’s spitting prophecy while digging through his bag. “You can’t stay in the Sahara forever.”

I stride toward the doors, not rising to the bait. My sex life—or lack thereof—isn’t his business. And hell will freeze over before I let him set me up with anyone, especially a puck bunny that he and River St. James have probably passed around a time or two.

“Diego, fuck off with that shit,” Micah says, coming to my rescue even though I didn’t ask and don’t need it. Micah gets it, though. Unlike Diego, he doesn’t fuck around. He’s committed to his wife and kid.

And me? Well, that shit is complicated.

I was in love once. But if I ever had a chance with her, I lost it five years ago…right about the time I knocked her brother out in front of an arena full of spectators. All these years later, the clip of the fight between me and Jamison Peters still makes the rounds every damn time my team plays the Bucks…and they’re our next away game.

The clip is everywhere right now.

I never really see the fight, though. No matter how many times they play it, all I see is Sutton on her feet behind our bench, horror stamped all over her face when the camera pans past her. All I hear is the way she screamed Jamison’s name when he hit the ice…

He deserved what I did, but losing her because of it still haunts me. So I’m not really in the mood for Diego’s bullshit. I’m not in the mood for anything.

I just want to go the fuck home and pretend that I’m not still messed up in the head over a girl who slapped my face and told me to go to hell five years ago.

Apparently, that day isn’t today.

As soon as I step into the hall, River shouts my name.

I sigh, watching him jog down the hall toward me.

“You’re needed in the conference room.”

“Why?”

“How the fuck should I know?” He scowls at me. “I’m not your assistant. I didn’t ask for details. I just told Alice I’d deliver the message. The message is delivered. Get your ass to the conference room.”

Fucking great.

“Thanks,” I mutter, stomping that way with my bag slung over my shoulder. I shake my head when I pass a supply closet and hear Emilia Lariat, the coach’s daughter and our new shrink, giggling from inside. I’d bet my left nut that Nash Whatley is in there with her, doing shit that’s going to get his dumbass kicked from the team when Coach finds out.

But that’s not my business, so I keep my mouth shut and stride on by, pretending I didn’t hear anything. The less I know about what my teammates are doing, the better.

I learned that shit the hard way. Every man on the Bucks knew why Jamison and I got in that fight. And all but one pretended they didn’t have a clue what he did. Pablo Gutierrez was the only person who spoke up in my defense. Everyone else acted like I was some fucking monster. They threw me to the wolves to protect their precious captain. And management believed them. Why wouldn’t they, when the evidence was long gone by that point, deleted as if it never existed at all?

My teammates now are different…but trust is damn hard to come by when you’ve been burned like I have.

“You couldn’t just call me with whatever you have to tell me?” I growl to Alice, the conference room door slamming against the wall when I push it open. But our publicist isn’t inside as expected.

“What the fuck?” I mumble, rocking back on my heels as Sutton Peters spins to face me, her gorgeous brown eyes locked on my face. Shock rips through me, wiping my mind clean.

“Um, hi,” she whispers, tucking long, glossy strands of hair behind her ears.

I don’t say anything for a long moment. I just…stare.

What the fuck am I supposed to say, anyway? It’s been five years since we were last in a room together, not since the day I was booted from the Bucks for attacking her brother. Attacking. As if the prick didn’t deserve it.

She was mad as hell that day. Sometimes, I wake up thinking I still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek. Her fiery, tear-filled eyes haunt me.

They aren’t blazing with fury now, not the way they did that day. They’re full of nervous anxiety, like she’s worried I’m going to tell her to get the fuck out of my face or something. As if I’ve ever been capable of that.

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