Page 34 of Back in the Game (Pride in the Game #1)

Wolf would pretend to give up and walk away, waiting for Blanchard to turn his back before he stuck his foot over the edge and touched the ice, gaining another wave of loud laughter.

At least the people of Calgary were being good sports.

When Coach finally chased them away to leave Blanchard alone, Jett’s ribs were sore from laughing.

“Fuck that guy,” said Wolf as they walked into the locker room. “There’s no way we’re losing this game.”

And Jett couldn’t agree more.

But that confidence did not translate to the ice. Not even close.

They were ten minutes into first period and already behind by two points. Jett didn’t want to admit it, but Blanchard was on fire tonight.

Jett wasn’t even playing badly, but he wasn’t on Blanchard’s level, and he felt like his whole team and everyone in the stands knew it.

His teeth rattled in his skull when he was slammed into the boards. He wasn’t the biggest player, but he and Blanchard were of a similar body weight and height, which made it easier to take his hits.

He chased Blanchard down the ice, smacking the puck off his stick and changing the direction of the play.

He sprinted across the ice, pushing his legs into the familiar speed he was known for, his eyes finding Bracken to his left.

He misdirected the shot, making Calgary’s defence cluster in front of him as he sent the puck to Bracken, who was open.

Calgary’s defence was like a stone wall, but Wolf was right behind him to push the bigger guys out of the way and get into position to catch the puck that was passed back to him .

They crowded the Calgary net, and Jett had to give the puck up—which was for the best because Blanchard picked that moment to hook him and knock his stick from his hands.

Jett’s wrist was screaming in pain, but he scooped his stick up before Calgary could knock it away from him, and caught the puck once again on the tip of his blade.

He shot it at the net before Blanchard returned, but it wasn’t going in. The puck smacked off the top bar, and the whistle blew for the delayed penalty call.

Jett turned and saw Wolf with his gloves off, his hands gripping Blanchard’s helmet as he punched him in the mouth. Bracken was being pulled back by a linesman and a Calgary defenceman trying to help, but he was fighting them.

Panting and bruised, Jett joined the mess before every player on the goddamn ice ended up in the sin bin. He helped the linesman, shoving him back while Bracken yelled at a laughing Blanchard.

“Touch my guy again, Blanchard! I fucking dare you! There’s a reason you weren’t picked for captain in LA, motherfucker!”

Wolf had been dragged to the bin with Blanchard following right behind, but he swerved to look at Bracken, his bloody teeth bared in a snarl.

“Remind me, Bracken! Who’s in the top five—and who’s in the hundreds! You have to be older than me with how shitty you play! Fucking retire already, you fucking pigeon!”

Christ.

The Toronto captain cursed and tried to skate after Blanchard, which ultimately landed him in the sin bin alongside Wolf. Five minutes for fighting.

It was the longest five minutes of Jett’s life. Hellstrom and Cormier were solid forwards, but Bracken had a talent for putting the puck where it needed to be, and Cormier did not. Tempers flared after the fight, and they had to do several restarts to play twenty seconds of game.

Jett finished his shift and fell onto the bench, tired and pissed off as fuck. Medical staff came to check on his wrist, but other than the bruising, he was fine .

Coach sent their rookie out, and Jett watched as nineteen-year-old Niko Cote, from a tiny indigenous community in British Columbia, scored their first goal of the game.

The booing was music to Jett’s ears. The guys pushed Niko to their bench so everyone could get in on the group hug, and Jett made sure to ruffle his head so hard that his helmet was knocked off.

“First goal of the NHL!” Jett shouted over the hollering.

Niko grinned, his green eyes wide with excitement. “I can’t believe I did that!”

They were called back to the ice for the face-off, and Jett glanced at the clock. Two minutes left in a 3-on-4 play, and Calgary wasn’t backing down.

Their team stuck close to Powers as Calgary tried to find an opening, and the puck was passed back and forth rapidly. And they did find one when they took a shot at the net, and Powers blocked and tried to grab it, but it was flipped off the ice—right over his head into the net.

Bracken and Wolf were unleashed two minutes later, but so was Blanchard, and he was on Jett’s tail as soon as he touched the ice. He had to endure two more tackles into the boards, three more fights, and one tripping call before the period ended at the blaring of an obnoxious horn.

The score hadn’t moved from 1-3, but if they didn’t do something to even the points, Calgary would run away with the win. They headed for the gate, dripping with sweat and blood, quiet in their anger as they mentally prepped for next period.

Jett’s skate blades touched the protective carpet, his eyes glued to the floor while walking toward the doors. He was ignoring the jeering from a group of Colts fans overhead when a hand grabbed his arm and forced him to stop.

His teammates moved around him as Jett’s gaze snapped to a man he thought was Arlo—but it couldn’t be Arlo because he had his opening game in like, two hours.

But it was the same blue eyes and Killinger good-looks.

The only thing that was off was his hair, which wasn’t normally long enough to tie into a messy bun.

“Townsend, what the fuck—”

“Townsend?!” said a loud voice that sounded like Harrison—but it couldn’t be—

The man in front of him smirked, and it finally clicked. It was Harrison, but—

“Where did your beard go?!”

Harrison scoffed. “I shaved it off and it started crawling across the floor, so I rehomed—”

Jett threw his arms around Harrison’s neck and crashed their mouths together.

This wasn’t how he imagined their first kiss, but he didn’t care.

He didn’t care that the cameras were rolling or that fans were screaming.

He didn’t care that he was too heavy for Harrison to hold with all his gear on, and he nearly sent them both to the floor.

All that mattered was the way Harrison’s arms tightened around him. The scent of his cologne—warm and familiar—flooded his senses. Their bodies pressed close, solid and real, and something in Jett’s mind finally exhaled: Harrison was here.

Harrison kissed him one more time, then pulled away, keeping his hands on Jett’s hips. “We should get you to the locker room. Your team’s waiting for you.”

Team? What team? Where was he?

Jett blinked, disoriented as the flashing cameras turned the moment into a blur of light and noise. “Right, I’m playing hockey. On the ice.”

Harrison’s expression shifted into a mix of confusion and amusement. Oh fuck, he was handsome. Why was he so hot? He looked ten years younger without the beard. Jett knew he was only 25, but he looked so good— too good .

“Fraser,” said Harrison.

“Oh god.” Jett stepped out of his arms. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. I can’t do this, you’re too attractive and I’m one hundred percent losing my mind right now.”

Harrison closed the space between them again and slapped a hand over his mouth. “Dude, we’re on the kiss cam right now. Get in the locker room before I kick your ass.”

Jett looked up at the screen above center ice, and sure enough, there they were.

Well damn. He was going to have to call his dad after the game .

But Jett wasn’t one to waste opportunities, so he leaned up and kissed Harrison’s cheek, and the crowd exploded with cheers.

Jett hadn’t expected that kind of reaction.

The explosion of cheers, the camera flashes, and the commentators practically tripping over themselves to narrate what had just happened.

But then again, he was an out player, and he’d just kissed Harrison Killinger—one of the most talked-about names in hockey.

Of course the announcers weren’t going to let that slide quietly.

Heart still hammering, Jett reached for Harrison’s hand, and their fingers tangled together.

He gave a quick squeeze before pulling him through the door and into the hallway, needing a second to breathe and to escape the noise and chaos behind them.

The crowd’s roar still echoed faintly in the distance, but here, in the dim corridor, it was just the two of them again.

“Jett, I can’t come back here,” said Harrison, tugging on Jett’s hand. “I asked your coach for a favour so I could meet you at the gate after first, but I have to get back to my seat.”

“No fucking way,” said Jett. “You’re with me. You’re not leaving.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works—”

“It does today.”

Jett had ten minutes to soak up Harrison’s presence, so he wasn’t letting go of his hand until the last possible second.

The locker room was its usual chaos when they entered, but it went quiet as a graveyard when they saw Jett and Harrison come in together. Some guys looked startled, while others, like Powers, were grinning like maniacs.

“Killinger!” Ryan’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding in the silence. He stood up from the bench, his expression unreadable as he started toward them with purposeful strides.

“Fuck, kid—it’s good to see you! I was hoping you would show up after I sent those tickets!”

Jett was nearly knocked off balance by Ryan’s rough hug as the man pulled Harrison in and gave him a solid slap on the back.

Tickets? What tickets?

Harrison’s grumpy frown looked so much cuter without the beard hiding it. “I was going to buy my own tickets. ”

“Yeah, but the seats behind the opposing team sell out fast.”

Behind the bench? There was no way that Harrison had been sitting behind his bench the whole time, and he never noticed.

Some of the other guys came forward, and Jett reluctantly let go of Harrison’s hand and moved out of the way.

He accepted a water bottle to hydrate while he watched Harrison shake the hands of the players who would have been his teammates.

Wolf was surprisingly one of the more excited ones; he smiled and also gave Harrison a hug and a slap on the arm.

Harrison’s expression remained passive during the multiple exchanges, but Jett knew this had to be painful. Guilt rapidly rushed forward, but then Harrison took his hand and held it tight, squeezing to let him know he was okay.

Adams showed up to make sure they were hydrating and cooling down. His gaze flicked to Harrison, and he gave a curt nod before he clapped his hands to quiet them.

“Cote’s goal was expected, but still exceptional. I’m not changing lines, but if any of you want to tap him in, give the signal, and I’ll approve. I want to see Cote and Fraser on the ice together, but only if Fraser can get to where he needs to be mentally and skate like I know he can.”

Ryan nodded and looked around the room, smiling at the Sunburst players. “We’re not out yet, guys. I know we can beat them. We just need to get fired up.” His eyes went to Jett, gesturing at Harrison. “I’m guessing that won’t be a problem now?”

Oh fuck yes.

Jett felt it now, the same fire that filled his veins whenever he played to prove something. He knew they were going to win this game. He wasn’t going to lose with Harrison watching.

“I’m going for a hundred-point season, Captain,” said Jett. “Count me in.”

“Welcome back, Fraser! Let’s kick some ass!” Wolf shouted, prompting the rest of the team into cheers.

The guys returned to their chaos as they wrapped tape and checked their gear, talking loudly enough to give Jett and Harrison privacy.

Jett grinned and glanced at Harrison, only to see him returning the grin tenfold. He was about to go to his locker and get one of his jerseys for Harrison to wear, because he needed to stake his fucking claim, but then he saw the shirt Killinger had on.

The white Sunburst logo was bright against the navy colour of the cloth, shining like a beacon for everyone to see.

“Just noticed I’m wearing your number?” Harrison asked him in that teasing tone of his.

Jett felt his mouth fall open. He grabbed Harrison and turned him around so he could see the back, the bright-white embroidery with the number 25, and the name Fraser.

Fuck.

Harrison turned and smiled at Jett and leaned in to whisper, “Careful, Fraser. You don’t have time to change your gear if you come in your pants.”

Jett smacked his hands against Harrison’s chest playfully, but he didn’t miss how solid the man felt now. He had been keeping up with their routine, Jett could tell. Harrison had muscles before, but if he was working on them for the entire time they were separated—

“Jett, we have three minutes,” Ryan shouted over the noise. “Stop drooling over your boyfriend, sit down and ice that damn wrist.”

Jett flipped him off, but he did as he was told.

Harrison took the empty spot beside him, leaning in to whisper into his ear, “Good boy.”

Jett blushed, but he didn’t care how red he was. Somehow, Harrison was here with him, which meant he had a game to win.