Page 63 of Pucking One Night Stand
We start skating off the ice in silence, our breath visible in front of us.
But no one relaxes. This morning still burns like a fuse waiting to reach the dynamite. And I’m not sure anyone’s ready for the explosion.
Not even me.
By the time we’re back in the locker room, the cold has faded, but the tension hasn’t. The smell of soap and damp gear clashes with deodorant and aftershave. Steam clings to the tiles, lingering like it knows something’s still coming.
I stand in front of the mirror, methodically combing my hair back. Neat. Controlled. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to control all damn day.
Behind me, Peters and Davis are cracking jokes again, something about McAvoy’s slap shot nearly taking off Brody’s head. They laugh and swat at each other like oversized kids. McAvoy fake-shoves Davis into the lockers.
Bishy? He’s dead quiet, sitting three rows down, pulling on his boots like it’s the most complicated thing in the world.
Brody walks up beside me, his towel around his neck, and speaks low. “Not sure if it’s just rumors, but from what I’ve heard, unofficially, the Aces might be buying up that Jett Lawson kid from the NY Tigers.”
I keep combing. “He’s good. Really good. A fearless, speed-driven forward who plays with reckless abandon. We could do with someone like that on the team.”
Then a hand slaps through my hair, wrecking it. I lock eyes with Bishy’s reflection in the mirror as he stands behind me, smirking. “I’ve heard he’s an asshole.”
He runs his hand through my hair again, like he’s trying to be funny. Like he doesn’t know he’s lighting the fuse.
I snap and swing around, my voice quiet but loaded. “I’m warning you. Don’t push me.”
He shoves me, chest to chest now. “Or what?”
And just like that, my control splinters. I raise my arm, ready to let it fly.
“Blake. This is not you,” Brody’s voice cuts in hard as he grabs my arm. “What the fuck is wrong?”
Peters, Davis, and McAvoy are on us in seconds. They’re not joking anymore. They’ve seen this look on me before. But not like this.
I grind the words out. “You want to know what’s wrong? I’ll tell you,” I glare straight at Bishy, and feel everything start to come loose. “First thing this morning, Cassy,” I pause, as Bishy stays silent. “McCullum’s daughter, she told me…”
The breath jams in my throat. “She told me she was pregnant. With my baby.”
The entire locker room goes silent. Bishy’s stupid grin evaporates. I keep going. “And not five minutes later, this idiot,” I jab a finger at him. “comes stomping up to me, waving a wad of cash like he just hit the lottery, yelling congratulations on winning our bet.”
I pause again. I’m shaking. Not from anger now. Something else. “She asked what the bet was about. And this meathead, this fucking clown, told her we made one that night in Sin City. About me getting her into bed. Like it was all just a damn game, and she was some prize to win.”
I can’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. “And now she wants nothing to do with me.”
Brody turns and stares at Bishy. “Great timing, Bish.”
Bishy scratches at his jaw, mock staring at the ground like a twelve-year-old who just got reamed out for smashing a window with a puck. His smirk is forced, weak. “Oops.”
My anger simmers just below boiling. Still pulsing through my jaw, my spine, my fists. I rein it in, barely. “Just fuck off, Bishy.”
I turn away from him like he’s nothing. Focus on the mirror. Comb through my hair again. The same rhythm. It’s the only thing keeping me from turning this locker room into a war zone.
Behind me, I catch his reflection as he slinks off, muttering something under his breath.
Brody’s watching me, scrubbing his towel through his wet hair like he’s trying to make sense of all this. “So, I’m presuming McCullum doesn’t know.”
I don’t answer.
Another problem for another day.
Chapter ten
