Page 53 of Heartbreak Hockey

“Right?”

Dash is less cautious about the way he flirts than Stacey was. Stacey doesn’t stop either though, blowing me kisses from the ice and mouthing things like, “This next goal is for you, honey.”

It doesn’t stop there. Casey and Dirk join in too and it makes me a little more than suspicious. I get the impression that this has morphed into something else. To make myself feel better, I check on Coach, ready to see him burning fire at me. He’s not. He’s leaned up against the glass, chatting with Calgary’s coach. It doesn’t look innocent either. I know that fucking grin on Merc’s face and it’s mine. He shouldn’t be grinning at other people like that.

I throw my stick in that direction—oops!—and give an apologetic smile when Mercy glares at me. I then walk over to retrieve it and near-to-snarl at the other coach.

“Problem, Leslie?” Merc says.

I lean against the glass so that I’m turned away from the other coach who goes back to his team—as he should—and tell Mercy with my eyes that I “did not care for that”.

He shrugs and smirks. “Go play hockey and cut the shit, thirty-nine, or I’m going to make that little scene you described for me the other day a reality.”

Thirty-nine is my jersey number.

And fuck, maybe I’m playing with the wrong sort of fire here? Nah. He can’t threaten me with a good time expecting I’ll stop. I pick up my stick and with more eye communication, relay that this is fucking war.

This time I initiate the flirting and the whole team seems to have caught wind of what’s happening—again, suspicious—because they’re all playing their part. Even Stronghold tells me what a nice ass I have, as we trample into the locker room after the second period.

Assholes. I see what they’re doing. They want to push the Me and Merc thing.

We’re up five to one and playing a solid game despite the chicanery going on behind the scenes. I mean, everyone wants to score a goal for me now, so there are goals aplenty. If anything, Mercy should be overjoyed that I’ve become the apple of everyone’s eye.

He’s not.

“Leslie.” Just one sharp word this time with explicit implication that I’m to follow him into the hallway again.

I plaster a brattish smile on my face. “Yes, Coach?” My tone is a mix of demure and innocent.

Mercy isn’t one to back down from a challenge. “Final warning. Keep this up and I will put you in your place. You’re nothing but a fucking brat who needs my itching palm’s attention.”

Well, that’s a good shiver.

I take a step toward him. I can barely breathe. That could mean so many things. I’m bombarded with fantasies, and I want them all. Whatever stupid reason I had for not being with Mercy is long forgotten. All it took was seeing him make eyes at that other coach for five seconds. I hated it so much.

Is my ego going to allow me to simply let this battle go? Of course not. If he wants to win, he has to fight for it. Fight for me. Maybe that’s all I really want. Someone who will go to the ends of the Earth for me. Is that too much to ask?

“I can’t wait to see who my lucky paramour at the end of the game will be. Anything else?”

Everything about him darkens. He’s dangerous and it sets my body alight with delicious tingles. We’re only inches apart. I want to reach out and yank him to me, attack his plush lips, but I can’t. I’m frozen in place, and great, now my dick’s hard as nails. There’s a hitch in my breath while I’m held in place by the intensity of his aura.

“I might lose some battles, Jack, but I always win the war.”

* * *

During the third period, the team hits hard. No, not with the game. I mean, I guess we’re still playing that thing, but we’ve already spanked this team. The score is eight to two or something ridiculous. I’ve been the losing team in games like this one—you just want the game to end.

I’ve become a good luck token. All players kiss my helmet when they change lines if I’m sitting on the bench. When anyone scores a goal—we’re still scoring goals—they look to me like I’m the princess at a medieval jousting tournament for a token of my affection and I wave my sweat towel for them. They ask me to bless their sticks. They compliment my everything. I flirt back.

“Nice save, Stronghold! Will you save me a place in your heart?”

“Superior stickhandling, Nolan. I’ve got a stick you can handle later.”

And then when Calgary pulled their goalie. “My net’s also empty if anyone wanted to know.”

Each thing is more absurd than the last. I expect to see Mercy laughing at us by this point, but he’s not. He fumes away with his arms crossed, not doing much more than shout line changes since there’s no way Calgary’s making a comeback at this point.

The game ends. We all hop off the bench and head for the ice to celebrate our victory. I’m hoisted as if I’m the MVP, which I’m not by any stretch of the imagination. With the number of goals scored, we’re all MVPs.