Page 83 of On Ice

I smile grudgingly. “I’m glad to have you back. I haven’t had anyone to talk to. I’m in unchartered territory with Evan. I can’t figure him out.”

“Maybe you need to ask yourself, do you really care what makes him tick?” His expression is serious. “Or do you just want to fuck him?”

I consider his question. “I definitely want the latter. I’m not sure about the other thing. Maybe I don’t need to figure him out. I just need to figure out how to get in his bed.”

“Exactly. Why don’t you take him someplace where you can show him off? You can spread the message that he’s yours, but also dazzle him with your charm.”

“Yes, I haven’t tried charming him since that first night.” I’m surprised to feel butterflies in my stomach at the idea of spending time alone with Evan. “Mario Spongilla’s daughter is getting married this Sunday. I could drag Evan to that and show him a good time.”

“Good idea.” He gives an exaggerated wink. “Maybe then he’ll show you a good time too.”

I grin. “We can only hope.”

“If nothing else, doting on him for a day will lay the groundwork for seducing him eventually. Sleeping with you is part of the bargain, whether he likes it or not. He agreed to that.”

“Evan has an away game Saturday.” I frown. “Do you think he’ll be too tired to go to the wedding with me? Maybe I should let him rest up a little before I take him somewhere.”

Marco lifts his brows. “I’m sorry, did you just consider putting another person’s needs ahead of your own?”

“I think I did.” I smirk. “Or maybe I just don’t want him so tired he can’t put out if the moment arises.”

He chuckles. “Ahhh, yes. There’s the selfish bastard I know and love.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Evan

I don’t see Luca before I leave for my away game against the Minnesota Wolves. I know he’s back from Italy, butapparentlyhe couldn’t be bothered to make time to see me. Why does that irritate me? Is it just an ego thing? I don’t actually give a shit if Luca gives me his attention. At least, that’s what I tell myself on the bus ride over to the Ice Den Arena, when it’s game time.

Stepping onto Minnesota ice feels like coming home and trespassing simultaneously. My skates carve familiar patterns during warm-ups, muscle memory taking over as I weave between teammates. The pressure of wearing the captain’s C is intensified this close to playoffs. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t captain of the team, but I’m too much of a control freak to relinquish the title.

Fans press against the glass during warm-ups, some wearing my jersey from when I played for the state championship. One holds a sign: “WELCOME HOME RILEY.” I’m flattered, but their enthusiasm just adds another layer of stress on me. I don’t want to embarrass myself by playing shitty hockey in the state where I grew up.

In the tunnel before introductions, I close my eyes and let the pre-game sounds wash over me. The murmur of the crowd fills the space, Torres bounces on his skates like he might explode from nervous energy, and the gentle thump of Deck’s helmet against the wall once, twice, three times. It’s a little superstition he started a few years ago. A lot of the guys have them.

The Minnesota Ice Den lives up to its name, cold enough to see your breath even in the stands. Their mascot, a snarling wolf, glares down from center ice as we take our positions for the opening face-off. The Arctic Wolves boast the fastest top line in the conference, and their home crowd knows it, the ambient noise already building to a roar.

My heart pounds in my ears as the referee approaches with the puck. Across from me, Lindholm’s eyes narrow in focus. The rest of the arena fades away. There’s only this moment, and this battle that’s about to begin.

I win the first draw, but Minnesota’s Eriksson strips the puck from Mills before we can establish possession. They transition instantly, three players streaking up ice in perfect formation. Noah slides post to post as their shot rings off the crossbar, the sound echoing through the arena.

Stay with your man,” Coach Baker yells from the bench, his face flushed red.

The first period is a track meet. End-to-end rushes, odd-man breaks, goalies sprawling to cover pucks that somehow stay out of both nets. Minnesota hits everything that moves, and I’ll be feeling Bergström’s check on my shoulder tomorrow. The scoreboard reads 0-0, but I know it’s just a matter of time before one of us scores. It feels like playing with matches in a room full of gasoline.

During a television timeout, I gulp water at the bench, watching the arena around me. I used to dream about playing here as a kid. The reality is both more and less than I imagined, the lights brighter, the collisions harder, the stakes higher than that little boy could have comprehended.

Deck leans over, chewing on his mouthguard. “They’re pushing too hard on their breakouts. Getting cocky.”

I nod. “That’s good for us. We need to stay patient and capitalize on any mistakes.”

Between periods, the locker room is unusually quiet. Everyone knows what this game means for playoff positioning. Mills is favoring his ankle after blocking a slapshot with his boot. Noah sits in his stall, chest protector loosened and mask off, sweat dripping from his hair despite the arena’s chill.

Coach taps the whiteboard with his marker, circling the neutral zone. “They’re sending both wingers deep on the forecheck, leaving this seam wide open. When we get possession, I want quick outlets to the far blue line. First look is the stretch pass. Mills, Riley, you two hang high when we’re breaking out. Make them pay for overcommitting.”

I listen to him while sitting in my stall, jersey and shoulder pads removed. One of the trainers digs his thumb into the muscle where Bergström’s hit landed, making me wince as he works on the knot forming there. I guzzle a bottle of water between grimaces.

The second period starts with a Minnesota power play after Deck takes a tripping penalty. Their unit moves the puck with precision, finding seams in our coverage. Noah makes three saves in rapid succession before a point shot deflects off Torres’ skate and in. 1-0 Wolves.

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