Page 77 of Pucking Around

I scramble to my feet. “Oh, no you don’t!” I snatch for his arm as he dares to brush past me. “You’re gonna stay in this room, and you’re gonna talk to me.”

“No, I’m not,” he mutters, moving towards the door.

I chase after him. “Mars!”

He reaches for the door handle. Without thinking, I leap.

“Saatana—paska—fuck—” he grunts. “Let me go—”

“No,” I grunt, my arms around his neck as I lock my legs around his waist. Jeez, this man is a tree of solid muscle.

He pries at my legs with his iron fingers, and I squirm, practically choking him as I wrap my legs tighter. “Get off—”

“You walk outta here, you’re gonna have to explain to everyone why you’re wearing me as a koala,” I grunt.

“You’re a mad woman—”

He turns, knocking my hip into the rack of weighted exercise balls. They quickly go tumbling across the mats, rolling in every direction.

“Ouch—shit—I’m trynahelpyou, asshole!”

“I don’t need your help—”

“You’re injured, you idiot! Stop fighting me!”

He stills, chest heaving like an angry bull.

I look at us in the mirror and can’t help but burst out laughing. He’s got one hand at my arms around his neck and one on my ankle where he was trying to pry my legs apart…my legs that are currently wrapped all the way around him tighter than bark on a tree.

“You need help,” I pant. “Let me help you. Let me do my job.”

He closes his eyes. “I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. The pressure is too high. Everything I wanted…everything I’ve worked for…I can’t let you take it all away.”

He sounds so deeply broken. He’s not an angry bear ready to maul me. And he’s not an immortal athlete, untouchable in his pads and his face mask. He’s just a man. And he’s scared.

Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Mars.” My grip on him softens. “I swear to you…hey, look at me,” I plead.

Slowly, he locks his steely gaze on my reflection.

“I will do everything in my power to help you…but you have to let me. You have totrustme. Give me a chance?”

39

Doctor Price is wrapped around me, the curve of her thighs tucked above my hip bones. The weight of her pressed so close has me wholly distracted. Her warm breath fans across the back of my neck. I’m fighting the urge to throw her across the room…or flip her down to the mats and tuck her under me and—

I groan, shaking my head. If we stay like this much longer, I won’t be able to hide the effect she has on me. I relax my body and she relaxes hers. Slowly, I loosen my grip on her arms and she slides herself down my back, dropping down to the mats.

She steps away from me, leaving me swaying on my feet. I rub my face with my hand, smoothing it over my beard with a soft groan.

“So,” she says, breathless. “Umm…is that a yes? Will you let me help you?”

I turn around, meeting her gaze for the first time without the crutch of the mirror. “You have no idea the pressure I’m under.”

“I know about the Olympic scouts,” she replies, crossing her arms under her breasts. She’s wearing a teal Rays polo with black leggings, her hair up in a knot like mine. A few dark tendrils frame her face. I want to brush them back. My hand twitches with it. I curl it into a fist, holding it at my side.

It’s not like playing injured never happens. You could ask any player on this team, and they’ll point to at least one part of their body causing them pain. It’s all about balance. How injured can you be and still perform? I’ve played with broken fingers, a bruised rib, a mild concussion—

“Ilmari,” she murmurs, her hand brushing my forearm. “Hockey isn’t the only thing that matters, you know.”

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