Page 45

A fter praising my organizational skills and in general, telling me how awesome I am, Warren Cole and crew left us by the entrance of Conte. An NHL coach boosting my ego like this should be thrilling. My head should literally be swelling. But all I can think is, Coach Harris’s head will explode when he sees that.

That being his daughter, Quinn, who struts towards us with a smile as big as Brady’s frown and Troye’s number one jersey swimming on her tall frame.

“Good luck, Petterson. You’re going to need it,” barks Troye and his clenched, fist bumps into mine. “You too, Skip.” There’s no fist bump for Brady, just an antagonizing wink over Quinn’s head as he presses a kiss to her temple.

“Nothing going on between them, my ass.” I mutter to Lotte. “Brady can tell me that till he’s as pink in the face as the hair on his troll and I won’t believe him.” Lotte nods in agreement but makes no verbal response. It’s a physical impossibility because she’s squished into my side, face buried into my arm pit.

I really hope I put on deodorant.

Not that I would ever complain, but she’s been deliciously clingy. Never straying too far. Her warm touch gets more addictive every day. I’d like to say my irresistible charm is behind it, but even someone like me, who takes pucks to the head all too often, can see what’s going on. Maybe when we get home tonight, I’ll bring up the Florida-shaped elephant in the room.

With a final squeeze of Lotte’s waist, I loosen my grip and step back. Game day routines are something hockey players live and die by and a huge part of that is the pre-game nap. I’m no different, and my body clock sends a yawn reminiscent of a sperm whale’s shuddering through me.

“Aww, does widdle Noah need his sweepy weepy?” Lotte’s lips curve into a contagious grin that spreads to me and even grumpy bum Brady.

“He does.” I nod, “and I need one alone, Little D. If I get into bed with you the letters I.N.G won’t come after S.L.E.E.P.”

Clutching his stomach, Brady groans, “You two are gross. If I offer you my couch, will that hasten your separation?”

At the mere thought of the two-seater iron couch it thrones, my back groans in protest, but it would save time. “Great idea, Brades.” I say, not taking my eye off Lotte who’s snuck closer again and is rubbing against me like a sexy kitten. “We can leave the car here and drive it home tonight, Lots.” It takes superhuman strength to resist sinking my teeth into her pout, but I push down the desire amassing in my sweats and do.

“Me and Quinn are going to talk to the DJ, so I’ll see you back here later? I’ll miss you. Dream of me.” On the tips of her toes, Lotte places a tender kiss to my cheek before walking backwards, fingers twinkling in the cutest wave ever seen.

After discretely adjusting myself, I turn to follow Brady, he’s got his head down and is more than a dozen paces ahead. “Wait up.” I holler, breaking into a gentle jog before nudging his shoulder and falling into step at his side. As usual, his fingers buried into his jeans pocket, so my love tap almost knocks him off his feet.

“You and Lotte seem sickeningly back on track. I presume this means her Florida plans are, too?” The turkey on rye I ate for lunch rolls does a slow somersault in my gut.

“Yes, we are back. But no, Florida is not.”

“It’s not?” Fueled by the need to escape this conversation, I shake my head and speed up till he’s the one chasing me, feet crunching on gravel. “What? So … are you going to break up or—?”

“Break up?” I shout like it’s the stupidest fucking thing ever said, “Fuck no. We’re not breaking up. Me and Lotte are … Lotte is … we—”

“Aren’t breaking up?”

“Right. It will be hard but the thought of not being together makes me physically ill.” Seconds from actually vomiting I pause, sucking in a few deep breaths and avoiding Brady’s concern. “Being apart will be hard but we can face time and she can fly down to me when she’s on break. We can make it work. We have to.”

“And Lotte’s on board with all this? I mean, you’re going to be down there living your dream and she’s going to what, be here watching you live it on TV? Doesn’t seem fair, does it? How could she be happy with that?” Troublesome nausea is replaced by stinging indignation.

“What, so because you’re a pathetic, lovesick puppy watching Quinn and Troye, everyone else has to be miserable too? I mean who are you even jealous of there?” It’s a low blow that I regret the instant it’s out. “Shit, Brades, I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah. I think you did, actually. I also think you can go sleep on someone else’s couch. See ya round, Cap.”

If I thought Brady’s couch was uncomfortable, napping propped up in my cubby, head resting on my rolled-up jersey is … worse. Much worse. Between the usual sounds of pregame, team BU’s obnoxiously atrocious blasting of Eminem’s Lose Yourself, and Coach White scrawling today’s motivational quote onto the whiteboard, I’ve managed about three minutes of actual slumber and feel a cold shiver of dread rolling over me. In my combined high school college career, there has only been three games where I’ve missed my nap and all three were shitshows, one so crapulent it ended in a three-night hospital stay. Tonight is too important for that to happen so I tough it out as long as I can. But when Taylor Swift’ s Shake it off rattles the walls for the fifth time, I give up and suit up.

In fresh warm up gear, I seek out the man of the hour, Marty, to see if I can sweet talk myself into some pregame up ice time. Since he started with us here at BC he’s gone from advisor to leader of the ice … Zamboni guys? The prep crew? Hmm. I’m sure they have a proper title but I’m also sure I don’t know what it is. I’m clunking my way down the bustling halls of the maintenance area when I spot him filling the Zamboni tanks, head tossed back in fits of hooting laughter.

“Noah, my man,” he shouts to be heard over the running water, “I would ask what you’re doing here so early but judging by your attire, I’m going to presume you want some early ice time?”

“Spot on, Marty. What do you say? Can I take a spin before the final resurface?”

“You can,” he says, pulling the hose from the tank without taking his eyes from me “but only if you promise me something first.”

“Anything … wait.” I give him the once over. Dude is pretty old, but he does look healthy. “It’s not like a kidney or anything, is it?”

“What?” Marty’s almost white eyebrows hit his hairline, “No, Noah. I promise, there are no organs involved. None of mine, anyway.” He continues his work, as he speaks, hands mindlessly feeding the hose back into the reel. “I wanted to talk to you about something I want to talk to Lotte about. It’s something I want you to talk her into if she talks to you about it after I talk to her.”

“Oh. Umm. What?” Trying to catch up, I scratch my hand over the back of my head, “That sounds like a lot of talking, that might turn into a lot of yelling. I think I’d rather give you a kidney.”

He huffs out a laugh, removes his gloves and slaps me on the back. “Donna and I want to leave The Green Line and our house to Lotte. I could just do it and let her find out once I’ve dropped dead, but I would love to get her on board and show her the ropes before that happens.” Perhaps sensing my doubts, he addresses them before I can form the words. “I know she is going back to Psychology, and I would never want her not to pursue that, but that rink is part of her as much as it is me. Even if she appoints someone, maybe an old hockey pro,” he winks, “to run the place, it gives her security and a home.”

“That’s a very generous thing to do, Marty.”

“So is what you two have done for me. Tonight is going to have that rink shining brighter than Lotte’s eyes. You both deserve a stake in its future.”

Slowly, his words sink in. Maybe an old hockey pro. You both deserve a stake in its future. As I do, Marty sees me in Lotte’s future, and I can’t wipe the smile from my face.

“I’ll do it.” I choke out, my voice full of emotion. “I’ll talk to her about it, I mean.”

“Excellent.” With surprising force, my back is slapped again as Marty nods towards the ice. “Now, let’s get you out there for a few laps before it’s tarnished by those damn Bulldogs.”

I follow him through the rabbit warren of rubber lined corridors, the smell of ice and sweat and tears intensifying with each step until the squeak of one last door draws my eyes up and the blinding glow of stadium lights reflecting off the ice hits me.

Damn I love this place. It hits me then, that once we are back from winter break, I’ll only have a few months of being a Bear left, and a sickening melancholy steals my breath.

Marty and I exchange nods and then I’m off, blades carving through ice, frigid air stinging against my cheeks, burning my lungs. I take a few laps at an easy pace before the need to burn off some of the too many thoughts swirling in my head, has me putting my foot down and really going for it.

“Take it easy, Captain. You need to save a little of that steam for the game.” Looking unfairly sexy in my #13 jersey, Lotte’s leaning over the boards, her smile as wide as mine when our eyes meet, and she steps onto the ice. “Marty lent me some skates. It’s likely I shall fall and break my head because they’re at least two sizes too big, but—”

I cut off her words with a kiss then sweep her into my arms and off her feet. Her ankles wrap around my waist, and we glide, just like that. Like there’s not an army of people preparing for the biggest game of the season possibly watching on.

With that in mind, after a lap or two I skate towards the benches, aiming for the penalty box. I plop Lotte down on the freezing seat then turn to lock the door.

“Why do I suspect your penalty box intentions aren’t noble?” she asks, scooting over for me to slot in beside her.

“Maybe ’cause you know me, and they’re not.” I take the spot she’s left for me then pull her into my lap. “I’ve always wanted to get lucky in the box.”

Lotte snorts, “Pretty sure you’ve been lucky in my box several times.”

“Different box … though that one is definitely involved in every one of my fantasies.” Slipping my fingers beneath her jersey, I dig into the smooth skin of her hips and grind her over my hardness, letting her feel what she does to me.

“Is that a cup in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“Baby, that’s all happiness. All me.” I take a quick peak over my shoulder then hers, before slipping one hand down until I feel … holy fuck. “Lotte, are you wearing my jersey with no panties on? “ She leans down, licks the shell of my ear then whispers.

“Keep going and find out.”

So I do. Pulling her closer, I take another sneaky look around. There’s a few of Marty’s maintenance crew on the far side of rink, and only God knows how many coaches, oh, and Carter - the team’s MC - for tonight will be lurking somewhere, but still, my fingers follow her directions and dip lower, discovering a small patch of hair and a soaking wet pussy. “I want to fuck you so bad, Lotte. Right here, where everyone can see how crazy you make me.”

Warm breath coming in short sharp pants brush the back of my neck as ministrations begin, her clit the main focus. My pressure is gentle at first but increases as I use my index and small finger to spread her open. She moans, loving it like she always does when I attack her from either side, and rub. I’d love nothing more than to replace those fingers with my tongue, but that will have to wait for tonight.

“Noah,” she hums, “baby, that feels so good.”

“I’m glad, little one, but you have to be quiet. Bite down on my shoulder if you need.”

There’s a sharp pain that oddly hardens my already aching dick as she does just that, sinking her teeth into the crook of my neck and groaning. Her muffled moans gives me license to increase pressure and pace till she's rocking and riding me like a fucking bull. There’s a loud metallic crack in the distance; one I recognize as the gates opening to let the Zamboni on the ice. My heart pounds in my chest. We only have seconds left and I’m going to use every one of them to bring her undone.

Luckily, she’s almost here. I can hear it in her breathing, feel it in the stiffening of her body, starting in her calf muscles and spreading like ocean waves crashing onto the sand. I bring her closer and closer to the edge, then beg for her to finish. “Come for me Lotte. Make my dreams come true.”

“Noah.”

On a muffled sigh I want played on loudspeakers at my funeral, she falls apart, soaking my fingers and I suspect drawing blood from the neck she now collapses into. Barely a pounding beat passes before Marty calls out from somewhere, “Noah, you and Lotte done?”

Lotte gasps and pulls her head back till her wide eyes meet mine.

Fuck she’s gorgeous like this, cheeks flushed, hair wild, teeth sinking into her plump, quivering lip. With a wink I slip my hand from her tights, raise them to my mouth and lick them clean, finally tasting her sweetness. “Sure am Marty.”