Shut Out (Bayard Hockey #1)(26)

“Your element. You’re probably really good, aren’t you?”

“Come and find out.”

“I’ll see.” I’m actually tempted to do this, curious about him and his hockey skills. It’s true I’ve never been a hockey fan—but then, I’m not into football or basketball either. I’ve never really gotten that whole jock appeal thing. I mean, I get that the guys are athletes and therefore in great shape, but what’s so attractive about guys running around tackling each other or smashing each other into the boards?

—

Okay, I totally get the jock appeal.

I’m sitting in the stands at the DeWitt Center on Friday night with Ella, who agreed to come with me to the game as long as we go out after. I’ve blown off an entire evening of studying for this, and right now I don’t even care.

I’m vibrating with adrenaline and arousal. The testosterone is up to the rafters of the arena, all those big bodies out there flying around at crazy speeds, flinging the puck at the net, hurtling themselves without any regard for personal safety to slam another player into the boards. They’re fearless skating into the corners for the puck, knowing there’s an opponent right behind them who’s going to slam them hard. If that were me, I’d leave the puck there and run—er, skate—the other way. Or pass the puck to someone else as fast as I could.

It’s only a game, but I see determination, courage, sacrifice, and loyalty out there on the ice. Yeah, some of the players are clearly better than others—and yeah, Jacob is one of those. In fact, he stands out with his speed and puck handling, drawing all eyes whenever he’s on the ice. He makes it look so easy and yet I know it’s not. But despite his obvious talent, he’s no diva. He hits as much as he gets hit. He passes the puck to others and doesn’t hog it. He throws himself in front of the puck to block a shot, sacrificing his body. He scores two goals, but he also gets two assists. He goes after one of the other team’s players when that guy laid a hit on one of the Bears that had the whole crowd booing and yelling. I’m not exactly sure what the difference is between a clean hit and a dirty hit, but apparently everyone else here knows, and they’re pretty upset about that hit and also by the fact that it didn’t result in a penalty. They cheer when Jacob checks the guy at center ice the next time they’re both on the ice together, laying him flat out.

As Jacob skates away from that, adjusting his helmet, I experience a fluttery sensation low in my belly. “Whoa,” I breathe to Ella. “I think I just had an orgasm.”

She giggles and leans her shoulder into mine.

“I should hate this,” I say. “It’s violent and brutal. I feel guilty for being turned on by it.”

“Uh-oh. Did you just become a puck bunny?”

“No! Well, maybe.”

“No, no, I don’t think you meet the definition.”

I slide her an amused look. “There’s a definition?”

“Yeah. A puck bunny is only interested in hockey players because they’re hockey players. Since you started seeing Jacob before you ever saw him play hockey, and you don’t even like hockey, that’s not the case.”

“Truth.” I nod. “Plus, the term ‘puck bunny’ is a little demeaning and slut-shamey.”

“Whatever, Skylar.”

I’m a little overwhelmed by the Bayard Pep Band playing songs that people are shouting along to. There are all kinds of taunting cheers the crowd is yelling at the refs and at the other team. And there are a lot of mysterious names being shouted out at various points when the band plays that confuse me. I have to say, the fans here are really, really into this game. It’s kind of cool.

My gaze follows Jacob down the ice. He gets the puck at the other team’s blue line. There’s a Princeton guy right behind him and two flanking him, trying to get the puck away from him. I don’t know how he does it, but he stick handles around all three of them, skates in on the net, shoots, and scores. The crowd goes nuts.

“Wow.” I shoot Ella a sideways glance as we stand, clapping. I lean over closer so she can hear me over the roar. “He wasn’t lying when he said he’s good.”

“He said that?” She smiles. “Cocky much?”

“Oh yeah, he’s cocky. But it appears he has good reason to be.”

I watch him skate by the bench and bump gloves with the other players to celebrate his goal. “That’s so cute.”

He leaves the ice and scootches down the bench to make room for others. He’s sweating and panting and holy duck f*ck, my * is throbbing. He grabs a towel and cleans off the inside of his visor with fast, practiced movements, then focuses on the play as they drop the puck at center ice. He and the other guys all yell as one of the Bears gets the puck, beats the Princeton defensemen, and races toward the Princeton net alone.

“Breakaway!” someone yells behind me, and everyone is shouting, “Go, go, go!”

When he shoots and misses, there’s a huge collective groan. Weirdly, I’m more interested in watching Jacob on the bench than the player who could have scored. Jacob sits back at the missed shot and slams a hand onto the top of the boards.

Now I wish Jacob was my real boyfriend because, holy hotness, I want to jump him and ride him like a mechanical bull.