Page 176 of Pucking Strong

Teddy holds out his hand. “Babe, give me my phone.”

I have no right to keep it from him, even though I want to squeeze it to powder in my fist. I hand it over.

He snatches it quickly, reading the message with a low groan of annoyance. “Fucking seriously?”

“Who is it?”

“It’s literally no one,” he says again, stuffing the phone in his pocket.

The ringing in my ears gets louder as the room clears out. We’re running out of time. I see the seconds ticking down on the game clock. I have to head back out to the ice. But suddenly, hockey doesn’t matter. I need Teddy to answer the goddamn question. “Teddy …”

He huffs, flapping his arms. “Fine. You wanna do this here? We’ll do this right here. He was a guy I matched with on a dating app six freaking years ago. And we never even hooked up,” he quickly adds.

Absorbing this information, I cross my arms. “What did you do?”

Jake steps past me, clapping a hand down on my shoulder pad. “Karlsson, bud, a bit of free advice? Never ask that question.”

I ignore him, my eyes only for Teddy.

“Your funeral,” Novy mutters, following Jake out.

Teddy just shakes his head. “Henrik, I swear it was nothing.”

“Tell me the nothing,” I press. “It can’t be worse than what I’m imagining.”

“Oh my god, we matched on the app and flirted a little. He took me out after a game in Chicago, and it sucked. He was pushy, and he kissed like a fish, and I bolted from the bar. End of story.”

I tense, eyes narrowing. “You met him in Chicago?”

“Yeah, sixyearsago.”

“And now he says he sees you here. He’s here now?”

His eyes go wide. “I—maybe. I don’t know. Because I don’tcare,” he adds emphatically.

“Did he play for the Blackhawks?”

He lifts his chin, holding my gaze. “Yes.”

I know this is ridiculous, and irrational, and fifty other words synonymous with completely inappropriate, but that doesn’t stop my mind from filling with images ofmyTeddy in the arms of one of the men now out there skating around in a Hawks jersey.

I’m not upset that Teddy has a romantic past. We all have one, even me. Teddy has never judged me for having taken lovers before him. That Teddy flirted with another man, even kissed another man, can easily be excused.

It’s the indignity that I cannot excuse, the outright insult to me as Teddy’s partner. This manknowswe’re married. The news of our wedding has been blasted everywhere for weeks. Not to mention Poppy’s Operation Mighty Oak campaign, and all the images of us on dates—drinking cocktails at High Tide, dancing barefoot on the beach, laughing with friends in that Japanese pub. He knows Teddy is mine. And, still, this man dares to send such a message? He thinks, with a crook of his finger, Teddy will go running to him? Fall into bed with him?

That has me seeing red.

“Tell me his name.”

Teddy leans away. “Babe, it doesn’t matter.”

Gripping his Rays polo shirt tight in my fist, I pull him closer, burying my face at the crook of his neck. I’m desperate to catch a hint of my scent on his skin, the physical reminder that he’s mine. It’s there, waiting for me, that scent of peppermint oil and wooded spice. I groan, dragging my teeth over his skin until he gasps, hands braced on my padded shoulders.

“Karlsson, let’s go,” someone shouts.

“Yeah, you can make growling noises with Teddy later!”

“Henrik,” Teddy says in my ear. “Look at me.” He pulls away, both hands gripping the collar of my jersey. “I’m not gonna do some shitty ‘other man’ drama with you right now. Until you said the words ‘Fish Lips,’ I forgot he even existed. Please, tell me you believe me. I’ll block him. He’s blocked, okay?”

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