Page 174 of Pucking Around

Call me a food snob, but my twin is a Michelin-rated chef. I’m not eating congealed cheese on salted cardboard. I could, however, be persuaded to buy some German roasted almonds. That delicious, roasted cinnamon smell wafts down the halls, drawing me in like a siren’s call.

“Rach, do you wanna split some nachos when we get our hotdogs?” Poppy asks.

I laugh again. “Girl, you’re like ninety pounds soaking wet, where are you gonna put all this away?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about me,” she replies. “We St. James’ are professional eaters. Caleb here will tag out before I’ve even gotten started. Now come on, I don’t wanna miss any of the pregame show! Do you have any idea how much time and energy I put into our home game production?” Like the loose cannon she is, Poppy goes racing off, leaving us in the dust.

“Jake’s gonna flip when he sees you in that,” Caleb mutters, stepping in beside me.

“He’ll flip right back when he seesyouin that,” I tease, my eyes tracing him up and down.

He drops a hand from his tray of nachos, his fingers brushing against my palm as we weave through the busy crowd. In the weeks I’ve been living with him, I’ve learned to treat him like a cat. He’s picky about where he sits, what he eats. If he doesn’t want affection or closeness, he lets you know, which is most of the time. He’s not a snuggler unless he’s asleep, and he’s definitely not into PDA. In that sense, he and Jake are night and day.

Even Ilmari is more physically affectionate than Caleb. Mars likes eye contact. And he likes when I feel him watching me. When I’m at work and he spots me, he’ll stop and wait for me to notice him, casually moving on as if nothing happened when our eyes meet. It’s like something out of a damn Austen novel. It gets me so fucking hot every time.

But Caleb never seems to want physical reassurance outside of sex. So, the fact that he’s offering now means I practically leap to reciprocate, weaving my fingers in with his as we move towards our section. He gives my hand a squeeze. “You good, Hurricane?”

I nod. Just as I’m about to speak, Poppy darts out from around the corner and Caleb drops my hand like a hot potato.

“Hurry up, you two!”

We both take deep breaths, following along after her to find our seats.

76

Game night. Rays vs Kraken. Home game. It’s my first game in three weeks. The cortisone shot helped reduce inflammation and Rachel added a gel shot last week. The joint lube has improved my range of motion significantly. The two treatments, combined with rest, have me feeling like I’m back up at eighty percent. It’s enough. It’ll have to be because the FIHA reps are finally here.

Warm-ups are done and everyone is getting ready to hit the ice. In the stall next to me, Morrow curses. “Fuckin’ stupid piece of shit.” He gets up and hobbles across to the other side of the locker room, complaining about a frayed skate lace.

As soon as he’s gone, Compton slides down the bench, nudging my elbow. “Hey. How you feeling tonight?”

“Fine.” I focus on adjusting the straps of my pads.

“Anything I need to know?” he presses, voice low. “You know, before we get out there…anything I need to do or not do?”

I glare at him. He’s breaking my concentration. I don’t like to engage in conversation before the game. And I really don’t like him doubting my readiness to play. I gesture to my pads. “You want me to take these off, Compton? You want to wear them, is that it? You think you can play my position better than me?”

“Hey, man, don’t get defensive. I’m just tryna help you out. I know this is a big game for you with the scouts here. You just tell me how I can help show you off—”

“Just do your job,” I mutter.

He huffs, clearly upset by my rudeness. “Yeah, you know what, I think I will just do my fucking job.” Just when I think he’s about to slide away, he leans in closer, his voice lowering. “Is this about the other day in the storage room? You still pissed about the whole goalie net thing? Because if you’re not cool with sharing, that’s really something we gotta know.”

I go still. The last thing I need to be thinking about right now is Rachel. Or me and Rachel. Or me and Rachel and Jake Compton fucking like champions against my damn nets.

In no version of my future did I ever imagine I might be considering sharing a wife and a life with a teammate. Certainly not an optimistic, fun-loving, sushi-eating, obnoxious defenseman.

This is why I had reservations about Rachel. Maybe part of me always knew she would complicate my life beyond my medical care. Now she has Jake Compton trying to treat me like more than a teammate. He’s trying to be my friend.

But I’m no good at this. I’m quiet and awkward. I live in my head. Rachel doesn’t try to pull me out. She just climbs inside with me. She’s in and I can’t get her out. Even Caleb seems to understand me. We get along. We did even before Rachel. We share a mutual fondness for silence and order.

But Jake Compton is loud and outgoing and messy. He makes friends with anyone and everyone. He’s always laughing, always teasing, always fucking smiling. This can’t work. He’ll get sick of my moods and my melancholy, and he’ll force me out.

Not that Caleb is any less moody, but he’s Compton’s DLP. He’s not going anywhere. Compton can’t possibly tolerate a second man in his life who is so difficult to live with. So, I’ll be out. This can’t last. Compton won’t want it to last, and I won’t blame him. There’s no way, with our clashing personalities, that he’ll ever let me stay.

“Move away from me, Compton,” I mutter.

“Jeez,” he huffs. “Good fucking luck, asshole.”

---