Page 1 of Punchline
PUNCHLINE
Jake Radovitz is finally figuring himself out again. After he accidentally injured a friend so badly during a tournament that it ended the guy’s MMA career, Jake shied away from the matandtheir friendship. Now he’s inching back into that world, working alongside his friend and coaching young fighters.
Ethan Bernier is trying his level best to prove that he’s ready to move up from the farm team to the NAPH. He’s playing hard, he’s playing well… and he’s playing with some newfound grit. Unfortunately, a humiliating attempt at fighting turns him into the joke of the league.
When a teammate suggests fighting lessons, Ethan agrees. Anything to avoid a repeat of that embarrassment.
But it’s really, really hard to focus on the instruction when the fighting coach is the hottest man Ethan has ever seen.
And now Jake is struggling to teach this cute student who’s making him face the bisexuality he’s tried to ignore.
Even as their careers pick up steam, maybe they can have it all: professional success, strong friendships… and love they won’t have to hide from their fans.
The Games We Play - Season 2 is the second season of this multi-author minor league hockey romance series! All titles run concurrently through the same hockey season and the books can be read in any order, so jump in anywhere!
CHAPTER 1
ETHAN
“See that fucker? Vincent?” Beside me on the bench, Kepke gestured at number thirty-eight on the opposing team, Max Vincent. “I’m gonna kick his ass before this game is over.”
I grunted in agreement. Dude was seriously asking for a beatdown. He’d just tripped Sven Cedergren—very obviously and very deliberately—and so much smugness radiated off him, it was a genuine miracle it didn’t fog up the glass in the penalty box.
I hated players like that. They didn’t do jack shit except try to injure people. He almost never scored, and he routinely racked up more penalty minutes every game than he spent on the ice. Tonight was looking to be one of those nights, too. We were less than a minute into the second period, and he’d already gone to the box twice in the first—once for a high stick that bloodied Keller’s nose, once for a vicious slash that had sent Magnusson to the locker room. Kells and Mags would both be okay, though Mags wouldn’t be back for the rest of the game; apparently the trainers were concerned he might’ve injured a tendon. Kells still had a wad of gauze in his right nostril and his eyes were full ofmurder. He might end Vincent before Keps had a chance to, and I didn’t blame either of them.
I restlessly tapped the heel of my skate blade as I waited for my chance to get back in the game. I wasn’t on either power play unit, but still… restless. I hated being on the bench.
Marek Stetina, one of our alternate captains, skated up to the dot in the offensive zone, his expression all business. As soon as the puck dropped, everyone was in motion. Marek won the faceoff and passed it to Cedergren. One of the penalty killers almost intercepted it, but Ceders bullied him out of the way (not hard when you’re a Swede who’s north of six-five) and claimed possession of the puck.
The power play unit set up and started cycling, getting the penalty killers moving left, right, left again. The impatient crowd roared “Shoot!Shoot!” but I knew what our guys were doing—keep the penalty killers moving to tire them out, and creep closer and closer to the net to keep any of the tired players from breaking away for a line change.
Our five players quickly passed the puck back and forth, in turn making the penalty killers whiplash back and forth. One made a grab for the puck and very nearly got it, but Kells snatched it away.
The penalty killers were definitely getting tired, too. Their movements were slower and they weren’t as precise or sharp. They weren’t as quick to react.
Perfect.
Especially because they’d been so focused on Ceders, Kells, and Olson, they’d lost track of Marek and Frost. They’d both quietly positioned themselves on either side of the goal. Frost was a few feet away on the goalie’s blocker side. Marek was right at the edge of the crease on the stick side.
Ceders held the puck on his stick. He faked like he was going to pass to Olson. Then to Kells. All four of the penalty killers reacted, moving up to anticipate those passes.
And before they could backtrack, he snapped the puck right onto Marek’s stick, and Marek fired it in over the goalie’s pad.
Like the handful of Ace fans in the away-game crowd, all of us on the bench were on our feet and cheering. Marek did a little celly before the rest of the power play unit crushed him in hugs. Then they were heading our way for fist bumps.
Across the ice, the penalty box opened, and Vincent skated out, visibly enraged and not the least bit chastened.
I couldn’t help grinning. We had a spectacular power play, and everyone in the PHL knew it, but his dumb ass still couldn’t resist taking unnecessary penalties. Thanks to him, we now had a 3-0 lead, and he was exactly as pissed about it as he should’ve been. Something told me he’d be in the box again before this game was over. Hopefully after getting his ass handed to him.
If that fucker had been on our team, Coach would’ve benched him for at least the rest of the period. After three costly penalties had dug the team into a hole, he could sit for a while until he cooled off and remembered how to play hockey. I’d seen Coach do it, too.
But as my linemates and I went over the boards for the faceoff, there he was—joining his teammates at center ice.
Great. Maybe Keps would get a chance to kick Vincent’s ass after all.
For the moment, Vincent behaved himself. Like his teammates, he focused on getting possession and getting into our defensive zone. They succeeded, too, especially after Vincent shoulder-checked Keps into the boards. It wasa clean hit, and Keps was fine, but it definitely shortened his fuse.
One of Syracuse’s forwards fired a shot at our goal. Cantwell blocked it, but the rebound got away from him, and Vincent slapped it back on goal. Cantwell flailed a bit but covered it up. As most people did, Vincent kept digging away in case the puck was still loose. Play to the whistle, that was what we were always told, so he and another Syracuse player jabbed and hacked away in search of the puck.
