Page 106 of Pucking Around

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers brushing over my lips. “Do that again, and my official medical opinion will lean towards amputation…and castration,” I add with a level glare.

He closes his mouth, jaw clenched tight, and gives me a curt nod.

“We’re doing thismyway, Mars. No games. No practice. We’re going to get scans, and we’re going to get answers. And I promise I will do everything in my power to have you back on the ice in time for the Olympic scouts.”

He shakes his head.

“Hey, I made a promise, and I’m keeping it,” I say. “I will protect you, Ilmari. Even if that means I’m protecting you from yourself. Hate me if you want, but I’m putting you first. You’re done with this game.”

Not giving him a chance to contradict me—or throw me up against the wall and kiss me breathless again—I slip past him and head straight for the locker room. The coaches aren’t going to like it either, but I’ve made my decision.

47

We lost. 1-4. I shouldn’t be surprised. Mars was benched at intermission, leaving us with Davidson in the net. He’s not bad, but he’s no Kinnunen. J-Lo was back in the locker room puking his guts out all game. And Karlsson was out with a finger sprain.Seriously. A fucking finger sprain. In junior league, I played a whole tourney with two brokenfingers and didn’t complain.

Not to mention Novy got a bullshit charging penalty at the beginning of the third that put him in the box for five fucking minutes. The Penguins scored on us twice while he was in there.

I shouldn’t be making such a big deal about this. I’ve lost plenty of games before. And the Rays will lose again. I just hate fucking losing. Oddly, I think it makes the team feel more real to me. It makes what we’re fighting for feel more real too.

We’ve got to start playing better as a team. We’re leaving too much weight on the goalies’ shoulders. Mars is one of the best in the League, and we ran him ragged. He’s on the bench right now because we couldn’t stop the puck from coming to his front door. We couldn’t protect him.

I blame myself. I’m a D-man, I can’t help it. And whatever, maybe I’ve got some baggage about guys getting hurt on my watch. I try not to think about it. You can’t let the losses get to you. We play so many games that you have to be able to shrug it off and move on. If you carry that shit, you could ruin tomorrow’s game.

I groan, shifting the ice pack off my knee as my phone timer goes off. That’s twenty minutes. Time to switch knees. Fuck, I’m getting old. Pretty soon I’ll be cruising the fiber supplement aisle looking for sales and asking Cay to pick me up some denture cream.

I sit up, moving my ice pack over to my other knee, when there’s a soft knock at the door. I tap the screen of my phone. No missed messages. Usually, the guys text ahead before they come to your room. We’ve all learned too many hard lessons about puck bunny stalking. And I didn’t order any room service…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Jake, open up,” comes Caleb’s voice.

I toss the ice pack aside and swing my legs off the bed, hurrying barefoot over to the door. I undo the chain and lock and swing it open to find both Caleb and Rachel standing in the hallway. He’s wearing a grey sweatsuit with the zipper only half-zipped, his chest bare underneath. His hair is still wet at the nape. He must have just returned from the arena.

My gaze drops to Rachel. She’s balancing a bright pink box in her hands with a bag slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a grey half-zip to match Caleb. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and she put her septum ring back in.

“Let us in. We have contraband,” she says with a wide grin.

I step back in an instant, holding the door open. I lock it behind them as they make themselves at home. Caleb unzips his hoodie and tosses it on top of my suitcase. Then he flips off his sandals and flops down onto the bed with a groan.

“You said you have contraband?” I say, moving over to Rachel and wrapping her in my arms. God, it’s like just seeing them again has my serotonin kicking in. I already feel more relaxed. I’m happier. I nuzzle my face in her hair, breathing her in.

She laughs softly, tilting her neck to let me kiss her pulse point. I brush my fingers over it, then my lips. She knows I like kissing her here. I like the mingling scents of her shampoo and perfume. Fuck if it doesn’t make my dick twitch. I haven’t had her in two days because of our game and travel schedule. Not since the night of the gala. My fatigue is quickly ebbing away, replaced with interest.

She flips open her bag. “First things first. And this was all Cay’s idea,” she adds. “He said it’s your favorite.” She pulls out the nectar of the gods: an icy cold bottle of chocolate milk.

I gasp, snatching it from her hand. I don’t technically get another cheat day until Sunday, but I will literally murder the person who tries to take this from me. I have the cap off in seconds, taking a long swig. Fuck, it’s so delicious I could cry.

“And these were my idea,” she goes on, picking up the pink box and popping the lid.

Nestled inside is an assortment of six different cookie sandwiches stuffed with frosting. One is rolled in chocolate chips. I smirk. Chocolate chips are like heroin to Caleb. If I touch that one, I’m getting my hand chewed off. Another is dusted in rainbow sprinkles.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” I murmur, pulling out the rainbow sprinkle one.

“Cay, you said you wanted the chocolate chip one, right?” she calls.

“Yes,” we say at the same time.

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