Rush: The Season (Austin Arrows Book 1)(2)

Hell, I’m giving them all one last shot.





1



Six months ago…

FOCUS. PUCK, PATIENCE. REACT. Focus. Puck, patience. React.

“Good luck out there tonight,” someone calls from my left.

I nod my head, keeping my focus internal. Or trying to. For me, this is usually the easy part. Key word being usually. Unfortunately, the phone call from this afternoon has f*cked my world to shit, and usually isn’t cutting it.

I know you’re getting ready for a game, but I need to tell you something and it can’t wait.

Shaking my head, I try to dispel that stupid voice, to stop it from rattling around in my brain. It seems to be stuck there.

This thing between us… Well, I don’t see it going anywhere. You’re too focused on yourself, and I deserve more attention than you give me.

More attention, my f*cking ass.

If I don’t get my head in the game, this is going to be one f*cked-up night. I’m ready to tear someone limb for limb with my bare hands, and it’s been nearly three hours since she called me.

I’ve met someone, Kingston. He’s nice and funny. He’s an architect, by the way. Good money, you know. And oh, he’s … God, he’s great in bed.

The words still feel like a slap, taking me completely by surprise.

Don’t get me wrong, you’re not … bad. He’s just better.

I heard her f*cking giggling, for f*ck’s sake. Then she moaned.

Fucking bitch!

There is so much going on around me it takes every ounce of mental fortitude to tune it out. Generally, I’ve got one thing in my head right before a game. Tonight’s cerebral billboard should read like this: Focus. Puck, patience. React. Focus. Puck, patience. React.

Nothing else.

For an hour before the game, that should be the only thing that flutters through my gray matter. I started that early on in my career, casting all the other bullshit out of my head. And it usually works for me. Right now, it’s doing dick to get my mind where it needs to be. It’s all I can do to keep pacing, tapping my stick every so often as I try to draw up mental images of how I expect this to play out. Instead, I can practically see her lying there, another man hovering over her.

Fuck.

The sad part is, I wasn’t that close to her anyway. Our relationship was more superficial than anything, and it was by no means serious. For f*ck’s sake, I wasn’t in love with her, I’m merely taken aback by her … execution. Not to mention the timing of it.

Someone taps me on the head with their glove, then another. I know my teammates are silently wishing me luck. It’s what they do. It’s what we all do. I won’t say that I don’t need it—tonight especially—because anything can happen on that ice. But I was f*cking born for this, and that means I need to shut the rest of the shit off and focus.

Focus. Puck, patience. React.

“We’ve got this, Rush,” another teammate calls as he passes.

You’re damn right we do.

Oh, and you might want to turn down the dirty talk.

I try to block out the voice in my head, but I can’t. She had the f*cking audacity to call me three hours before the game. A very important game, I might add. These days, every game is important considering we’re hovering at the edge of being in last place. Not only in the Western Conference but in the entire f*cking league. If we don’t win damn near every game left, that’s exactly where we’ll be. Last f*cking place. Two years in a row… I don’t want to think about the repercussions of that.

Now that I think about it, the kinkiness factor is a little much, too.

The lights in the arena shut off, the announcer rumbles our introduction, but as is generally the case, he sounds so disinterested he might as well simply call us “the other team.” However, it’s our cue to go out onto the ice, so we do. Since this is an away game, we’ll have to endure Detroit’s theatrical entrance while we do last-minute warm-ups.

Really, Kingston. Thanks for a good time. But I’ve got another man to warm my sheets, so your services are no longer needed.

The minute I step out onto the ice, I know this night’s going to be shit. I can feel it in my bones.



I stare blankly at the mirrored wall behind the bar. Every now and then, the bartender crosses in front of me, breaking my concentration. Studying the f*cking bottles lining the glass shelf isn’t exactly rocket science, though.

I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour drinking a Sam Adams and trying to persuade my overtaxed brain to give up and call it a night. I declined the invite from some of the guys to go out for drinks. After our brutal loss, it would probably be smart to relax a bit, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

“Mount Rushmore?”

I cast a cautious glance over my shoulder and see a skinny brunette standing there, smiling at me. I cock an eyebrow, waiting.

“Can I get a picture?”

I want to tell her no. I want to tell her to leave me the f*ck alone. I’d rather sit here and have a pity party without interruption, thank you very much. Instead, I turn on the stool and face the other girl holding the camera. The brunette leans in, getting rather cozy for a second while her friend figures out the iPhone. When it appears their acquired picture is all good, I sit up straight and wait for the questions to come. I’m quite familiar with having very little privacy, especially after a game.