Page 17 of Enticing the Enforcer

Jparks23:You’ll have to guess.

IngFlock:Velvet Skin?

Jparks23:Nope.

IngFlock:Honey Drip.

I smile. That would have been a good one.

Jparks23:Wrong.

She kept trying, four more guesses, each one a miss. I learned one thing about Ingrid, she loves playing games too.

The last text came in an hour ago. A simple,Good luck.

I close the phone and center myself on the present. How the air smells like tape adhesive, menthol rub, and damp gear. A low bass line from Reid’s speaker thumps under the chatter.

Across the room, Axel is taping his stick, head down in concentration, until he glances up. “Who are you texting nonstop? That phone’s been glued to your hand since we got here.”

I smirk, shoving it into my duffel. “Your mama.”

He groans and rolls his eyes. “Original. My mother would eat you alive, spit you out, and then read Bible verses to you until you begged to be put out of your misery”

If he’s waiting for a real answer, he’s shit out of luck. I pull my jersey over my pads, tugging it down until it sits just right on my shoulders. My gloves hang open on the bench next to me, the palms worn in so they feel like a second skin.

I’m not just keeping this from Axel, I’m not telling any of them. Not about meeting Ingrid. Not about the kiss. Not about the late-night texts that make it hard to focus on anything else. Even if I did tell them, even if theybelievedme, the ribbing I would get would be merciless.

Hard pass.

The door opens and Coach Bryant steps in, clapping his hands once, loud, sharp.

“All right, men, settle down. This is it. You’ve been working for this moment all season. Some of you are here for the first time. A few others,” his eyes flit over to Reese, “are here for a second chance. Whatever the reason, we’re here to win it. Forty minutes at a time, all gas, no brakes. You playourgame, and nobody’s taking this from you.”

“Hell no they aren’t!” Reese shouts, rising up to set the tone as our captain. He’s a good leader. A good man. I’m lucky to have played with him and call him a friend.

The rest of the team builds on that energy. Heads nodding, gloves slapping against knees. Axel yells, “Let’s go!”

I roll my shoulders, feeling the weight of the pads, the stretch of the jersey.

As I stand, Coach Green, our trainer, passes by, gives my shoulder a quick, firm check. “Ready, Parks?”

“Always,” I tell him, mouth curling into that game-time grin.

The tunnel to the ice is waiting. And for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling like I’ve got more than one kind of win to chase.

I stare downat center ice, hyper aware that we’re in the third period, five minutes left.

We’re up by one, but it’s not enough. Not against Central.

It falls in a blink, but Reese takes the draw, wins it clean, snaps the puck back to Reid. I’m already in motion, cutting down the right side, looking for an opening. Reid feeds it to Emerson, who threads it across the neutral zone to me.

I take the pass on my blade, skate hard, and hear the crunch of their winger chasing me down. Dropping a shoulder, I fake the dump, and slide it behind me to Reese, because fuck yes, he’s got a lane. He rips a shot from the top of the circle and it soars–

Clang.Off the post.

The rebound’s chaos–sticks, skates, bodies colliding. I’m in the thick of it, trying to muscle their defenseman, Lennox, off the puck. He throws an elbow and I take it hard in the ribs.

Wrong move.