Page 61 of Back in the Game (Pride in the Game #1)

“The Sandford kid is decent, so keep plays on the right if you can. Their goalie is awful, but he’s especially slow at blocking high shots, so you know what that means.”

“Top shelf, baby!” Wolf shouted, his words followed by a clamour of clapping from the other guys.

Harrison nodded. “Right.”

God, he looked so fucking hot like this.

The sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, biceps bulging and that grumpy frown that spoke of five different levels of offended.

Jett wanted to tear his eyes away from him, but his gaze was glued to vibrant blue eyes and the dark stubble that Harrison had let grow out over the last few days.

He needed to marry this man. He needed to marry him today and give him a baby or something. It was the only thing he could think of that would express how much he fucking loved him.

“Let’s get out there and start our 4-game trip right, fellas.”

Jett cheered with the others, laughing when Ryan clapped Harrison on the shoulder.

“What Killinger said! Let’s get the fucking W! ”

They returned to the ice to a roar of mixed reactions—cheers rang out loud and proud, but were undercut by a scattering of boos that echoed through the arena.

Jett’s line, along with Wolf and Patrickson, glided to their positions, each taking their place with practiced precision as the first notes of the national anthem began to play.

“You know you’re almost even with Park for points right now, don’t you?” Bracken asked once the anthems ended, and they were drifting to center ice.

Jett did indeed know that. Jin told him off at least once a day because of it.

“Let’s get you a couple more points,” said Bracken. “I want to rub it in his face before we get a few days off.”

“I’m game,” said Jett. He bumped fists with his captain and took his place outside the circle, sidling up next to the Barbarian captain, Brad Hersey.

“Fraser, how you doing, buddy?” Hersey said jovially.

“I’m great, Herse.”

Their captain was way too friendly for an American. Only until he was trying to crush you into the glass anyway.

“You excited about trying to win tonight? I think you’ll be a little shocked at how good we are these days.”

Hersey was probably referencing the fact that they had just called up a new defenceman from one of the farm teams—some Italian guy who was supposed to be scary as shit. Jett could see him nearby, a massive figure with dark hair and a scowl that could put Harrison’s to shame.

Jett pushed against the captain as the ref blew the whistle and held out the puck. “I highly fucking doubt one guy will make a difference. He’d have to play three positions just to cover all the gaps you guys leave for me.”

The puck hit the ice, and Bracken won the face-off, flicking it back for Wolf to catch and pass to Cote.

Hersey laughed as Jett took off, already confident that Bracken would get the puck to him if he went for the Barbarian net. Sandford tried to cut him off, but Jett had too much momentum going. He would have to risk drawing a penalty if he wanted to stop him.

He saw Cote to his left, struggling to get around the new D-man to pass the puck, but Bracken was open, so he was awkwardly able to catch it .

Jett was in position by the time the puck came sailing toward him, and he didn’t have to think as he slapped it toward the top left of the net.

It was a good shot, but the goalie took a chance and ended up grazing the puck with the butt of his stick, sending it up so high that it went out of play.

Jett tried not to feel too disappointed, but it would have been an awesome goal. He was looking up at the overhead screen and not paying attention—he almost skated into the giant defenceman lingering nearby.

Barzetti, a man who was pushing 7’ with skates on. He was just as big and broad as August Snow, except a fuck-ton more intimidating. The guy looked like he had never been happy a day in his life.

“Sorry,” said Jett, since he had made the mistake of drifting too close. “Also, welcome to the league.”

Barzetti’s lashes were ridiculously long and dark. They framed his hazel eyes prettily, making them look greener than they were. Those eyes looked down at him now, blinking lazily like a cat.

Jett was starting to feel like a deer staring down a tiger.

Barzetti said nothing in response. He narrowed his eyes at Jett, mouth guard sticking out as he chewed on it and skated away for the next puck drop.

What the fuck?

“Oh yeah, avoid him if you can, Jetty,” Greene said, sliding beside him. “We’re all fucking terrified of him. He hasn’t said one word since he joined the team, and rumour has it that his dad has something to do with the mob.”

“The mob?”

That wasn’t a thing, was it?

“He broke Wade’s arm during practice,” Greene said, referring to one of the other defencemen on the Barbarian team. “Tripped him into the goalpost so hard it snapped. And that was his own teammate.”

Holy. Shit.

Greene skated away with a nervous frown, and Jett couldn’t help but mirror his expression. He wasn’t scared of Barzetti, but he’d rather not be out with broken bones if he could help it.

They tried to make another play for the net after Bracken won the face-off again, but the Barbarian’s defence had tightened up, and Jett was running out of gas by the end of his shift. He hit the bench and grabbed a drink, pouring half of it onto his head to try and cool himself down.

One of the Barbarian forwards ran away with the puck, and Bracken jumped to his feet.

“Don’t let him in, Jace! Don’t let him in!”

Powers blocked the shot with his glove, and Cormier scooped up the rebound, turning the play around.

“Fuck me.” Ryan fell back onto the bench and started sucking back water. “What the fuck is wrong with us right now?”

“You’re gathering momentum,” said Harrison’s voice behind them, and Jett felt the thrill of excitement nearly skip his heart to a stop. “Which I understand, but you need to buckle up and start playing if you want to win.”

“Heard loud and clear, Coach,” said Bracken. He turned to Cote and elbowed him. “You ready to go again, kid?”

Cote’s frustrated growl was audible over the screaming crowd. “No, just—give me a fucking second, okay? I need to—” he froze and glanced at Bracken, his captain. “Sorry—”

“No,” said Bracken. “If you need a second to collect yourself, take it. We don’t break rookies on this team.”

Cote’s grip tightened around his stick, his eyes locking onto the game as the Barbarians forced the Sunbursts on another defensive play. Sandford was killing this game so far, and Jett wanted to be grumpy about it, but he was happy for his friend.

When they finally hit the ice for their next shift, Cote’s body language screamed readiness. His shoulders were set, and Jett could see his determined expression under the visor.

Bracken secured the puck, and the line surged forward, charging into the Barbarians’ zone.

Barzetti was on Cote like a shadow, riding his hip and using every ounce of pressure to force an early pass. Cote had no choice but to send the puck flying down the boards, hollering for Jett to make sure he was on it.

Jett read the play and launched into motion, his blades carving into the ice as he raced ahead to receive it. But just as the puck came into reach, a stick clipped the back of his skates, and his balance was gone .

His feet flew out from under him, and his body twisted before slamming into the boards shoulder-first with a bone-jarring thud that rattled his teeth and knocked the wind from his lungs.

Pain exploded through his body, making his vision darken briefly. Adrenalin had him scrambling back to his feet faster than his brain could process what happened. He heard a whistle blow over the ringing in his ears that nearly deafened him.

“Jett!”

Bracken was on him, bracing against Jett in case he needed to lean on him. A fight had broken out, and all the whistling and cheering were loud enough to make him dizzy.

Fuck, what had even happened?

He caught sight of Cote in the middle of the fight, looking to draw blood from Barzetti, who was standing far away from all the commotion as it unfolded. That didn’t seem right because Cote wasn’t a fighter.

“Why is Niko so mad?”

And why did talking make his body hurt? Jett pressed a hand to his shoulder and hissed when the contact made it throb.

“He’s mad because Hersey tripped you, and you hit the fucking wall. Are you okay?”

Jett rolled his shoulder slowly, but it only felt bruised. “I’m great, but it still doesn’t explain why Niko is trying to kill Barzetti and not Hersey.”

Bracken scoffed. “It’s because Barzetti was the only one he could reach.”

“Fraser, you need a medic?” A ref asked, skidding to a stop in front of him. “You should go get looked at during the commercial break.”

Jett shook his head. “I’m fine. It’s just bruised.”

The ref didn’t look convinced, but he signalled to the others, and one of them took center ice. A penalty was called against Hersey for tripping, putting the Sunbursts on the power play.

“You should go to the bench—”

“No.” Jett shrugged Bracken off and headed to the Barbarian’s zone. “Get me the fucking puck. I owe Hersey one.”

Nice guy or not, Jett would make sure he paid him back for the trip .

When the two minutes on the timer ran out, Jett got into position, ignoring everything else around him except the space between him and the net.

Bracken won his third face-off of the night, and before any of them took a breath, the puck was touching the blade of Jett’s stick.

A well-aimed, simple shot had rubber flying through the air, right into the space above the goalie’s shoulder.

No buzzer for them, but Sunburst fans in the audience jumped to their feet, and Jett was crowded by his team on the ice. Their love hurt his bruised shoulder, but he laughed and accepted it all before skating over to the bench to get celebratory first bumps from the guys.

“Fraser, shift over!” Harrison snapped. “Get your ass on the bench.”