Charming as Puck(60)

I’m spared from continuing the conversation because Duncan Lavoie is sent to the penalty box for elbowing, which is such a bullshit call, because that other player was ten times worse. “Open your eyes!” I yell as Alina and Aunt Hilda boo. “He almost had his head taken off!”

Duncan’s pissed. He throws his stick on the ground and stares sullenly at the game, muttering what appear to be several words I try not to use in front of my dogs.

Also?

My heart’s in overdrive, because this is when Nick’s most vulnerable.

When the other team’s on a power play.

I grab Muffy’s hand without realizing I’ve done it and watch Minnesota charge toward Nick.

“He’s got it. He’s got it,” I mutter to myself.

But this is when he’s been scored on most this season.

We’re up three-nothing. We’re in a good spot, but I want so badly for Nick to get a shutout.

And not just because I teased him about sleeping with him if he does, but because I think he needs it for his confidence.

I hold my breath. Everyone’s charging the crease. Nick’s there, squatting low, thighs and knees moving, ready to drop or dive, one man against seven.

Holding his ground.

Minnesota shoots.

Nick deflects it with his stick.

They go for the puck again, but Zeus digs it out and sends it up to Manning Frey, who takes off, and all of my breath whooshes out.

And we’re only fifteen seconds into the penalty.

“He’s got this, Kami,” Alina tells me. “This is championship Nick Murphy.”

She’s right, of course.

He’s a pro.

He had a rocky start to the season, but he’s sharp tonight. It’s like he’s more aware of the game. More determined. More driven.

I suppress a smile while my nipples tighten under my fleece vest.

Or maybe, he’s just a little more motivated.

I’m motivated to want him to win. Because if last night was a preview of his idea of makeup sex…

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Aunt Hilda says, “but if I were dating a hot young thing like that goaltender, you bet your britches I’d be thinking it too.”

“Don’t ever say that in front of Felicity,” I say, eyes glued to the hockey players zipping by on the ice. Someone takes a long shot, but Nick easily catches it in his glove and tosses it to Sokolov.

“Honey, given who she sleeps with, I don’t think it would bother her to know you’re settling for second best.”

“She’s related to him.”

“That’s why he’s seventh best.”

I don’t bother arguing, either about her changing the number or any other part of her wrongness, because I suspect she’s just trying to see if she can get my goat.

Duncan’s finally sprang from the sin bin, and Nick’s still holding Minnesota off.

And now I can take a full breath again.

“Does Felicity get this exhausted every game?” I ask Alina. “It doesn’t seem like she does.”

“She’s been doing this a lot more years than we have.” She nods to Nick, who’s so into the game, tracking the play at the other goal, he might as well be in a different building. “She worries about him too, but she’s never known any different. And Ares—”

The rest of her words are drowned out by the entire arena collectively shoving to their feet and screaming as Ares knocks in another goal seconds before the buzzer sounds to end the second period.

Muffy and Aunt Hilda are hugging and jumping up and down, making Muffy’s braids whip all about. The Thrusters head off the ice for the break between periods, but this time, I get a sly grin from Mr. Goaltender himself.

And yes, my heart flutters, my breasts tingle, and everything below my belly button tightens up in a thick, delicious coil of anticipation that makes my panties wet.

“Oh, honey,” Alina murmurs. “You have got it bad.”

I do.

And I don’t think I mind one bit.





Thirty-Two





Nick



I am fucking back.

Five-nothing, baby. We shut those fuckers out, I got a win, and I’m on my way to see Kami to celebrate.

I’ve been through the showers, tossed out a few morsels to the sharks—I mean reporters—lurking outside the dressing room, and now I’m finally heading to the garage. She texted me just after the game, and sadly, it wasn’t a boob shot, but it was a note that she was going out for a drink with the ladies while I changed, and if she doesn’t answer, it’s because her phone battery died.

I’m supposed to text her—or Alina—when I’m leaving, but instead, I head the four blocks to Chester Green’s with Lavoie, Sokolov, Klein, Jaeger, and The Bear.

It’s packed tonight, and we don’t get three feet inside the sports bar before cheers go up around us.

Feels like we won the cup all over again.

“Hey, Nicki-poo,” the two bunnies who offered me medical and financial advice call from the bar. Three more zoom in on the guys around me. Drinks are offered. Nachos. Firstborns. Whatever we want.

I want to find Kami.

And there she is, at a table for six with the usual suspects, minus Felicity but plus her cousin, aunt, and mom.