Page 105 of Scoring Position

Ryan leaned his forehead against Nico’s chest. “God, I—I really missed you.”

Another phrase that sounded a lot like something else. Nico bit his lip. “I missed you too. But if I win gold, I’m getting drunk with my team.”

From the wry twist of his mouth, Ryan wasn’t particularly pressed. But he did startle when the door pushed open a second later. A woman in her midtwenties with sandy blond hair and the same brown eyes as Ryan stuck her head in the door. “Hey, heads up, bro, you’re about to have company and/or your psycho captain’s gonna send out a search party.”

Nico suppressed a shudder. He’d heard stories about that guy.

Then the woman’s gaze fell on him. “Oh, hey, Captain von Thirst Trap. We meet at last. Don’t worry, Ryan can introduce us later. But seriously, hurry it up unless you’re ready for, like, a Fraternizing with the Enemy speech. Okay bye!”

The door closed.

It took Nico a few seconds to find his words. “She knows the von Trapps were Austrian, right?”

“It’s cute that you think that would stop her from calling you that.”

He half laughed. “I think I preferred ‘Grouch.’”

“I’m kinda partial to ‘sweetheart.’” He smiled—a slow, soft thing. “Or ‘Nicky.’”

Nico’s heart tripped over itself. He wasn’t going to swoon. That would be dumb. He was just dehydrated. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ryan repeated, smiling a little more like himself now—a knowing, sharp-edged one full of mischief. He fisted his hand in the front of Nico’s jersey and tugged him down for another kiss that he kept too fast and hard to satisfy—which Nico understood, because if he let it get deep, there was no telling what might happen. “I have to go to practice. You—” He leaned forward until his forehead butted against Nico’s chest plate. “Give us hell tomorrow.”

Then he slapped the crest on Nico’s jersey and was gone.

Nico stayed put for another minute, his head reeling. Then he took a breath and followed.

At least it wasn’t an actual closet this time.

THE GAMEwas—

Thegame—

The game was the most beautiful hockey Ryan had ever played.

The team clicked on every level. Yes, their captain was a possible psychopath. Yes, it would take four of their defensemen to produce a full set of teeth. Absolutely, Ryan was only here because several key centers were rehabbing injuries this off-season.

But on the ice, every pass was perfect. Every check was pure. And there was so muchroom. Ryan’s legs burned after every shift. His heart never left the ice.

Canada was up 2–1 in the middle of the second when a turnover by Germany ended with the puck on Ryan’s stick. He barely had time to take a stride before he was passing up the boards to Caleb Brown, his linemate, a two-time Art Ross winner.

Brown didn’t have a shot as he carried the puck into the zone. But Ryan, coming up behind him with speed he’d drawn from God knew where—Ryan did. Brown passed. Ryan took the shot.

The German goalie stretched out a pad and made the save—but Grange, coming up on Ryan’s other side, picked up the rebound and flipped it into the back of the net.

3–1.

“I fuckingloveyou,” Brownie shouted as they all piled on Grange for the celly.

Ryan didn’t know who he was talking to, so he just said, “Eh, you’re okay.”

Grange face-washed him. It was great.

It was still great three and a half minutes later, when Nico got a takeaway off one of Canada’s toothier defensemen behind Germany’s net.

On the bench, Ryan sat forward. Half of him needed his teammates to catch up. He knew what Nico could do with a puck in substantially less room than he had now.

The other half was cheering Nico on, desperately grateful that Ryan wasn’t on the ice and didn’t have to be responsible for stopping him.

---