Page 171 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

My eyes land on Jayce, noticing the intensity in them that proves just how doubtful he is of what I’m about to pull. I’m waiting to see that flicker of glee, that emotional spark that will morph into a mocking smile when he assumes I can’t complete the deadlift.

Setting my hands on the bar, I get in position and take a few breaths.

Our eyes are still locked, even when I make a slight movement to mimic lifting the bar.

He falls for the bait—the corners of his lips begin to lift while his stance further relaxes.

As if I’ve already lost.

It’s my turn to smirk, but not out of enjoyment or pleasure.

Out of pure spite.

I don’t need to see Maddox or my other Heartbreakers’ faces to know they support me.

That they listen to me and trust I can achieve whatever I’m confident in.

It’s watching my ex once again have no faith in what I can achieve that is the push I need to grit my teeth and execute the single set in one fluid movement.

The guys don’t even wait for the bar to drop to the floor to lose their shits. Their cheers make me puff out a breath before I finally let go of the bar, which loudly crashes to the floor.

“YES!” Cheers swarm the gym, echoing against the walls while I’m once again tackled to the point we all fall to the ground and are laughing uncontrollably.

“MIKAYLA PUCKING JOHNSON!”

“OUR VIPER POWER LIFTER!”

“MIKAYLA, SIGN MY JERSEY!”

“GET A PICTURE! GET A PICTURE!”

I don’t even know what’s happening from hugs, pats on the shoulders, flashing lights. Maddox breaks up the lot of grown-ass men with Damien, Wolfgang, and Ace in tow, but when I’m finally out of the web of cheering hockey players, I get to enjoy the sight of the Pincers disappointment.

And pure shock.

Might as well give them the truth.

“I power lifted for five years,” I announce, and the Vipers are gasping with “OHH” and “AHH.”

Mack manages to reach my left side, patting my shoulders and squealing with pride.

“That’s the problem with you Pincers. You guys always get all cocky and bold, but you never do your research,” Mack declares, with her arm over my shoulder.

“How would we do research?” Oscar growls. “Mikayla’s not famous or anything.”

“Her Dad is,” Kane reminds.

“Was,” Diesel mutters.

I try to ignore the slight sting it brings, but Mack isn’t going to tolerate any of that.

“One Google search and you would have found out that Mikayla Cross Johnson won the powerlifting competition in the female subdivision five years in a row,” Mack announces and narrows her eyes at her team. “It would have been six if I didn’t beat her to it.”

“WHAT?” Most of the Vipers gasp and look at Mack.

She lifts her free left arm to show her muscles.

“What? You guys think because we’re curvy slim that we can’t lift shit?” When no one answers, she carries on with, “That’s why Mikayla sent me off to go get Wyatt, knowing one of you cocky assholes would have brought me into this. The only time you’ll see me compete with my bestie is professionally, so there you have it.” She gives me a squeeze, then lets go.

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