Page 177 of Pucking Strong

I wrap my hands around his wrists and pull them down. “I believe you.”

The relief on his face is so instant and so complete. Then he leans in, pressing his lips to mine. “God, I love you,” he says against my lips. “Henrik, I love only you.”

Before I can reply, someone jerks on the back of my jersey from out in the hallway. “Jesus, man, let’s fucking go! Kissy time can wait!”

Teddy steps away from me, still smiling. “Go. I’ll be here when it’s over. Karro is at the Langleys’, so Rip’s tonight, okay? It’s karaoke night.”

I groan. The last thing I want when I’m feeling this tense is to sit on a stool at Riptide’s Bar and Grill and watch other people sing. I want Teddy under me, inside me, shouting my name. No one can show my husband a better time than me. Tonight, I mean to remind him of it.

The moment Henrik turns the corner and heads back out to the ice, I jerk my phone from my pocket and craft a scathing response to Fish Lips, aka Corey Lamont, middle-string forward on the Chicago Blackhawks.

I meant every word I said to Henrik. Corey and I were nothing. Less than nothing. I was a lonely college kid, and he was a handsome professional hockey player, arranging gay hookups on the sly. We matched in Chicago, and I was stupid enough to agree to meet up with him.

Online, he was charming, but that was only to get me to say yes. In person, he was arrogant, rude, and clearly only interested in a quick fuck. After the game, he took me way outside the city center to some seedy bar and grinded on me for half an hour.

I finally ducked away to use the bathroom, and he followed. He cornered me and stuck his tongue in my mouth, slurping at me like a fish until I made some excuse about actually needing to use the bathroom. Then I bolted out a side exit and took a taxi back to the hotel.

That’s it. That’s the epic love story of Teddy O’Connor and Corey “Fish Lips” Lamont.

Henrik doesn’t need to know about that chapter of my life. I was a horny, reckless kid. I went with a man I’d just met to a part of town I didn’t know to a bar where I felt unsafe. And all for what? A chance at a love connection? It was dumb. And so fucking dangerous. And the taxi back to the hotel cost me, like, forty bucks.

In truth, that disaster of a date with Fish Lips was the last time I ever took that kind of risk. I deleted my account on all the dating apps. I just hated the way he made me feel. So small and dirty. Utterly disposable.

Thumbs flying, I type out my message, then read it back.

TEDDY:

You stupid fucking fuck! My husband just saw your message. You better thank your lucky stars I didn’t tell him your name, otherwise the Zamboni would be cleaning you off the ice in tiny, bloody pieces. I wasn’t interested six years ago, and I’m not interested now. Fuck off forever. I’m blocking this number *middle finger emoji*

There. No room for misinterpretation, right?

Feeling better, the righteous indignation flows through me as I hit Send. Then I block Corey’s number with a muttered, “Goodbye, Fish Lips.”

I didn’t conceal his name to protect him. I did it to protect Henrik. My husband means far too much to me to see him get in trouble out on the ice over something as trivial as a bad date six years ago—

“Oooooh!”

“That’s gotta hurt.”

“Hey, Ted, Karlsson just got checked pretty bad!”

Zapped out of my stupor, I look around the PT room. “What?”

All the guys are huddled around our TV. The second period has already started. Dustin Evers, one of the athletic trainers, steps back, pointing at the screen. “Chicago just did a shift change, and number nine came busting out like a freight train. Slammed Karlsson down to the ice. He’s okay though,” he adds as I dart across the room.

“What?” Heart in my throat, I catch the tail end of the replay footage. Henrik takes possession of the puck, but he only gets in one good stride towards the goal before a flash of white and red barrels into him, knocking him down to the ice. The player has a big number nine on his jersey. Above the number, his name is stitched in thick black letters: “LAMONT.”

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