Page 133 of Pucking Around

Yet still, she seeks me out.

And they both know.

That’s the part in all of this that confuses me most. Compton knows his woman wants me. Does the man have no pride? Does he care so little about her fidelity? He must not, because she brazenly admits to having a relationship with Sanford as well. Can it be possible they enjoy sharing her in such a way? Can they really bear to let another man kiss her or touch her?

The concept is wholly foreign to me. Even just thinking of their hands on her has me shifting in my seat, desperate to get away. I can’t sit here and feel her presence so close to me while I’m thinking of other men touching her. Other men making her moan. Making her come.

And not just any men. Compton is my teammate. We’re on the ice together every day. He’s my sword and my shield. He’s a damn good player. To add insult to injury, he’s a good person. He’s just…nice. He always tries to include me in things. I know it’s him who keeps adding me back in to the group chat. Novikov told me. Compton always has a kind word when I fail to block a save. He encourages me.

But he’s fucking my Rachel. And he knows that she wants me. They talk about it.

I press my head back against the seat, eyes shut tight, breathing through the feeling of deep, aching need coursing across my chest.

I can’t do this. I can’t indulge her curiosity. She wants to fuck me, that’s all. She doesn’t wantme. Why would she when she has Compton and Sanford? She’s offering me a taste and nothing more. But what mortal could ever stop at just a mere sip of ambrosia? If I can’t have all of her, I will have none. I’ll let her go. I’ll walk away. Not a single drop of her essence will pass my lips again.

Resolved, I cross my arms and keep my eyes shut, pretending to sleep until we land.

“Dammit,”she mutters, eyes on her phone as she walks at my side through the airport towards baggage claim.

“What?” I say, trying to let her set the pace. Walking this slow feels odd.

“Oh, it just looks like we’ll have to get a taxi over to the clinic,” she replies, eyes still on her phone as she taps out a message. “My friend Tess was going to pick us up, but she’s having some kind of crisis at work.” She sighs, looking up from her phone. “You good to head straight to the clinic? Or do you want to check into your hotel first?”

She’s as casual as can be, strolling at my side as if we’re discussing the weather, not the potential demise of my two-decade-long hockey career. But my mind snags on something else she just said. “Myhotel?”

“Uh-huh. I booked you a room at the Cincinnatian,” she says, eyes back on her phone as she leads us onto the airport tram. “It’s really nice. I’ve stayed there before. And it’s just a few blocks up the street from the clinic.”

The tram starts to move, jolting us forward. I grab for the metal pole. She just leans into it with her shoulder, eyes still on her phone. Is this another tactic? A game? Why won’t she look at me?

“Where are you staying?” I mutter, feeling increasingly irritated.

“With Tess,” she replies. “Before I moved down to Jax, we rented an apartment together. She turned my room into a guest room.”

So, she’ll take me to the clinic, let her doctor run their tests, and then leave me at my hotel? That’s what I want, right? Distance. I want to be alone. I want away from her cloying presence. Before I do something I regret…like grab her by the hair and kiss her senseless on this tram.

“Fine,” I say. “Clinic first.”

We walk out to the taxi stand and the businessman from first class is waiting at the curb. He’s on his phone again, talking with his hands.

“Yeah, Chuck. I’m on the way right now and—yeah, hold on—Hey,” he says, spotting us standing behind him. He flashes me an American smile as he taps his earpiece, ending his call. “The kid told me who you were. Big NHL goalie, huh? That’s cool, man. My buddy plays for the Bengals.” His gaze darts to Rachel and I fight the urge to step in front of her, wanting her blocked from his view. “Wanna sign something for my kid?” he adds, patting his pockets like he’s looking for a spare piece of paper.

“No,” I reply, feeling Rachel tense next to me.

His eyes narrow under dark brows. “You won’t sign something for a kid? That’s a pretty shitty move. The kinda move that could get you in trouble,” he adds, making it clear he means to threaten me.

“Do it,” I say. “Report me to the League. See if they care that one asshole couldn’t get an autograph.”

“Mars,” Rachel murmurs, her hand wrapping around my wrist.

His gaze darts back down to her and he smirks appreciatively, taking in her curves. “Nice,” he says. “I see why you wanted to pay me. You should listen to your girl, man.”

“Suksi vittuun,” I curse, squaring my shoulders at him. I’m 6’5” and nothing but muscle. This man is maybe 5’8”. He’ll back down or get flattened into jelly.

“Sir, your taxi is here!” calls the stand attendant.

Mr. Business glares at me for another moment before he turns away with a muttered, “fucking asshole prick.” Then he gets into his taxi and drives off as another pulls up.

“You know that guy?” Rachel murmurs, her hand still on my wrist.

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