Page 13 of Confessions of a Former Puck Bunny

“Okay,” I said, because apparently I wasn’t sane anymore, and I was fairly sure it had nothing to do with ketchup. “Oh, wait. Your sweatshirt.” I moved to pull it off, but he put his hands on my shoulders.

“Keep it for the ride home. Now that you’ve finally warmed up, I’d hate for you to get cold again.” The teasing grin he flashed me was heavy on the implication that he wasn’t only talking about my body temperature. “I’ll get it from you later.”

Later. As in he and I would be this close again.

And as he backed away, his gaze staying on mine for a couple of seconds before he spun around, the foolish part of me that had given in to this even more foolish plan, couldn’t wait.

Chapter Seven

Ryder

That stuff I said last night about focusing on playoffs and just seeing how it went with Lindsay was true, but admittedly I mostly said it so she wouldn’t go back to pretending I didn’t exist. But as I dragged my tired ass back and forth on the ice, it hit me that it was truer than I wanted to admit. Especially since admitting it would make Dad right. I’d stayed out too late, and while I’d hit the weights this morning, I did such a sorry job it hardly counted.

How the hell does Kowalski do it?The guy hardly slept, and he and Megan were always out all hours of the night. Then again, he looked a bit gassed as he skated toward me, and I should’ve easily blocked him, but my limbs dragged a couple of beats behind what my mind told them to do.

On cue, Coach lit into us and I cringed, hoping I was wrong about where this was going. “Looks like you boys forgot how to play. That’s it. Split into four groups and get on the line. Time for Michigan Miles.”

I groaned, my entire body getting in on it. Michigan Miles involved a mixture of speed skating with push-ups, the distance farther with every round.

Hudson shook his head at Kowalski and me as we skated over to him.

“Bro,” Dane said, “Don’t get all pissy because you weren’t out with your girl last night. I’ve got some time to make up for, and Ox here might actually get lucky this year.”

“Shut up,” both Hudson and I said at the same time. Kowalski did me a huge favor last night, but the guy never did know when to keep his mouth shut.

The shrill pierce of the whistle cut through the air and we bolted into action. At the end of every one, I’d pray it’d be the last, but Coach just kept going. By number four I was sure my lunch would make a reappearance, and by number five visions of my bed danced through my head.

Finally Coach called it and told us to get some water and then come back ready to run plays.

Dane scrubbed a hand over his face but recovered fairly quickly. He was used to being short on sleep, and he could drag a bit and get away with it because he had two extra years of experience. He and Hudson had played together for so long they practically read each other’s minds, which also made them unstoppable on the ice—especially when Beck was thrown into the mix.

But I’d barely proven myself, and I couldn’t lose my fragile grip on being one of the starting team—there were guys just lined up and waiting for me to fail so they’d get a chance to shine. If I slipped, I’d never hear the end of it from Dad. He didn’t accept mediocrity in any form. Neither did I.

Which was probably why—even though I needed to stop thinking about last night—my mind still flashed to Lindsay. That killer smile, holding her hand during the play that made her so happy, and those laughs I managed to eke out of her and the way they’d echoed deep in my chest.

There was nothing mediocre about that girl, and I wanted more.

After hockey practice finished having its way with me and I slept a solid eight hours, that was.

…

Saturday, while I was mixing up a protein shake for a late breakfast, my phone buzzed.

Lindsay:I know I’m being extra needy, but yesterday the professor reminded us we have a quiz on Monday, and after studying math for, like, three hours straight—for the record, I didn’t find it even a little bit fun, something I do NOT have a grudge against—I’m still struggling, and I have to get a least a low B to pass the class. Do you have any time today? I know you have a game tonight, but Sundays and Wednesdays are my hell days with the paper coming out the next day. Just an hour would be amazing.

Lindsay, two seconds later:And I’m rambly even in texts. Sorry.

Lindsay:Also, I know rambly isn’t actually a word, for the record.

With one hand, I poured my protein shake into a cup, while I typed with the other.

Me:For the record, how much caffeine have you had?

Lindsay:I’ve lost track. I think it’s safe to say a lot.

I glanced at the time. I had a pregame ritual that involved certain foods and running plays in my head. Distractions weren’t something I allowed on game days. But Lindsay needed my help, and if she was rambling this much in text form, I could only imagine how much fun she’d be in person.

Me:Come on over.

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