Page 12 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

AVA

A s I wait for Eric to arrive on game day, I can’t shake the nagging thought that he and Levi might have talked about what happened between us. The idea gnaws at me, curling around my nerves, but before I can dwell on it too long, Eric strides in.

By some miracle, he’s completely at ease.

He stretches out on my table like it’s second nature, like I’ve been working on him for years instead of just a handful of sessions.

And yeah, he gets hard as a pipe. I acknowledge it for a split second, but this time, I brush past it without lingering, without letting it steal the air from the room.

I half expect him to make a suggestive comment, to test the boundaries and see if I’ll help him out again. But he doesn’t. And damn, I didn’t realize how much I needed that relief .

What happened last time felt like the only way to help him in the moment, but it can’t become a regular thing. Crossing that line once was already a risk. Doing it again could lead to consequences I’m definitely not ready to face.

At least for now, it seems like we’ve left it behind. Good. I need it to stay that way.

Although I’ve never watched a hockey game in my life, being part of the staff means I get a free ticket. So, I decide to finally see what it is that Sven, Eric, and Levi obsess over so much.

And honestly? I’m blown away.

Hockey is relentless—fast, brutal, barely giving players a second to breathe. The only pauses are the seventeen-minute intermissions between periods, and even those feel like they vanish in the blink of an eye. I barely have enough time to grab a soda and a pretzel before the action picks back up.

Even as a complete rookie to the sport, spotting them is easy.

Levi, of course, stands in the net—his helmet bulkier than the others, designed for maximum protection. Honestly, I wish all players wore as much gear as goalies do. The whole sport would be a hell of a lot safer.

Then there’s Eric, tearing down the ice like a goddamn turbo jet.

For such a massive guy, he moves with shocking speed—like pure muscle and momentum combined into something terrifyingly unstoppable.

If I ever had to face off against someone like him, I wouldn’t even hesitate.

I’d skate my ass right off the ice and hide in the stands.

Sven is a thing of beauty out there. Where Levi is all about blocking shots and Eric is a wrecking ball, barreling through anyone who dares get in his way, Sven glides.

He doesn’t just move—he commands the ice, weaving through defenders like they aren’t even there.

And when he scores—effortless, precise, like it’s nothing—it finally clicks just how much raw talent he possesses.

They all possess.

The way Sven moves, the deadly accuracy of his shot, the complete control he has over the puck. It’s more than just skill. It’s instinct. And damn if that isn’t a turn-on.

It’s not just admiration that simmers low in my belly—it’s heat, deep and unmistakable.

My thighs press together instinctively as slickness pools between them.

I’ve never been one to fawn over athletes, never considered myself a real fan of the sport.

But if I’d known how ridiculously hot and tough these men are, especially the three I’ve already had my hands all over, maybe I would’ve been one a lot sooner .

The Avs crush the Panthers with a final score of three to one, and watching the team storm off the rink, riding the high of victory, makes me feel it, too.

I might not be out there scoring goals or making game-winning saves, but I’ve contributed—kept their bodies in check, helped them perform at their peak. It’s a small role in the grand scheme of things, just a tiny cog in the machine, but it matters. And it feels good to be part of something bigger.

The next day, the energy is sky-high as we board the plane to New York for their matchup against the Rangers. Everyone is chatting, laughing, and riding the adrenaline rush from the win.

Everyone except me.

While they revel in the excitement, I sit quietly, dread curling in my stomach like a fist. The closer we get, the worse it gets.

The moment we touch down, nausea rolls over me in a sickening wave.

Newark might technically be in a different state, but it’s still part of the New York City metro area.

My old turf.

And the familiarity alone is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Dean’s home turf .

I don’t want to be here. Anywhere near here.

Even though there’s no logical way my ex could know I’m traveling with an NHL team, just being back in this part of the country unsettles me.

It’s irrational, but I can’t shake the feeling that the second I step outside, he’ll know.

As if somehow, just by existing within his radius, I’m setting off some invisible alarm.

It’s ridiculous. I know it is.

Dean never cared about hockey, no more than I did back then.

He always wanted people, clients, to believe he was all about spirituality and mindfulness, but that was just for show.

The only thing he ever cared about was money, success, and making a name for himself.

A big part of that meant working me to the bone without paying me fairly, or on time.

If he wasn’t barking orders at me, he was playing Sudoku. That was it. His entire personality boiled down to control, arrogance, and self-indulgence.

And cruelty. And adultery. Even though I’d love to forget.

If I could walk into a doctor’s office and have them erase every memory of him, I’d do it in a heartbeat. No hesitation. Gone. I don’t want to sound ungrateful—the kindness he showed me in the beginning wasn’t nothing—but it damn sure wasn’t enough to make up for everything that came after .

For everything I lost. If I never thought about Dean Masters again, it would still be too soon.

Despite this hotel resembling the last one, just knowing I’m this close to Dean keeps me on edge. Every flash of ginger hair makes my stomach twist, especially on a man. Even a quick glimpse out of the corner of my eye is enough to set my nerves off.

I’m so wound up that when I spot a redheaded guy with freckles, I nearly lose it—until I realize he’s just a teenager. Not Dean. Not even close. But it takes repeating that to myself before my pulse settles.

The only thing keeping me grounded is my packed schedule and the small chance I’ll get to see Leighton. God, I miss her. I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text.

Ava: Hey girl! Just landed. I’ll let you know when I’m done with work so you can come by the hotel to have dinner with me. Game should be done by 7pm.

Leighton: Ava!! Can’t wait. I should be done at the bar by 8pm. Xoxo.

Appointments keep my body busy, if not my mind. At least they stop me from pacing like some cracked-out maniac .

The second I’m done, I hole up in my room, ordering some light snacks from room service just to avoid stepping out and risking a Dean sighting.

And yeah, I feel like a coward for watching from my room instead of the stands. But I’m not ready—not brave enough to face it. To face him. The monster who made me feel worthless. Not here. Not yet. Even if the lawyer assures me I’m in the clear, I know the unease won’t vanish overnight.

Logically, I know Dean won’t just materialize out of thin air tonight, but sitting out there in the stands would make me feel too exposed. And with these games being televised, there’s always the risk of a camera catching me before I even realize it. Being there live just isn’t worth the trouble.

The game that night is another win for the Avs, but this time, it's a much closer call. A single goal late in the third period breaks the tie, and the sheer anxiety of watching it unfold has my esophagus searing with heartburn.

Afterward, my phone lights up with a group text inviting everyone to coach’s suite for a celebratory party. I ignore it, but another message comes immediately after.

Cecille: Hey, where you at?

Ava: Getting ready in my room. About to grab dinner with my friend soon.

Cecille: That explains why we didn’t see you at the game. ??

Ava: Yeah, haven’t seen her in a while. Be nice to catch up.

Cecille: How about you bring her to coach’s party instead?

Ugh. All I wanted was a quiet space to catch up with Leighton—not a damn party. I'm really not in the mood for this.

Ava: It’s ok. I think we’re going for low key tonight.

Cecille: You’d better get up to it. Coach wants you there. I’ll come grab you guys in an hour.

Dammit.

Ava: Fine.

I quickly blast off another text to Leighton.

Ava: Change of plans. We’re going to the coach’s party in his suite instead.

Leighton: That would have been fun, but our closer just called in sick and I’m not off the hook. I have to pull a double.

Ava: So, I won’t see you tonight at all?

My heart plummets to the pit of my stomach.

Leighton: I don’t think so. Sucks. I’ll have to catch you the next time you’re in town, or I’ll have to find a way to make it down to you. Have fun at the party. Be safe.

Ava: I will. Talk soon.

Well, now I'm not in the mood to do anything. But I don’t want to make a bad impression on coach, so I have to dig deep and push through.

I swap my casual jeans and sweater for a simple black dress—something I’ve learned to always pack while traveling because you never know what might come up. After brushing through my hair and adding a quick swipe of makeup, a knock sounds at my door. It’s Cecille.

“ Ready? Where’s your friend?”

Not really. But I say, “She got stuck at work. Looks like it’s just us.”

“Bummer. I wanted to meet her.”

“Tell me about it,” I sigh.

When we arrive, we’re handed champagne and are immediately surrounded by hockey players, most of which are in casual attire.

But for some reason, maybe because they appeared with our publicist at the end of the game, Sven, Eric, and Levi are in their suits.

Granted, Sven has his tie undone, and both Eric and Levi have their jackets off, ties loose, and their shirts rolled up to the elbows, but damn.

I raise my eyebrows at all the male eye candy—and try not to drool—but I can’t help picturing each of them as they looked the night we had our free-for-all.

“Mmm-mm, love me some hockey players in suits,” Cecille drawls.

“They are handsome,” I agree.

“Oh, girl, this is nothing compared to when the whole team poses for photo shoots. Especially for the annual calendar.”

“There’s a calendar?”

“ Actually, there are two. One of them all dressed up and a more uh… NSFW version. The first one is sold to the masses while the other… Well, let’s just say we only post it on our vendor site where you have to be eighteen or older to make a purchase.”

I’m totally intrigued by this new piece of information.

“Are they nude or something?”

Cecille’s lips curve in a secretive smile.

“Yes. But the poses are tastefully done so that their man bits aren’t hanging out for everyone to see. Still, there’s lots of skin, just no peens.” Her eyes glaze over.

“Why are there two calendars?”

“Both are done for charities, so it’s all good.

The second one is always made up of the players who are single.

I don’t blame the wives or fiancés of these guys from keeping them limited to wearing their suits.

If I was attached to one of them, I wouldn’t be thrilled about him showing his ass to a large portion of the human race, either. ”

I make a mental note to check who posed in last year’s calendar. The naked versions of Sven, Eric, and Levi are definitely gorgeous enough to have made the cut. Not that I’d ever ask Cecille about it.

Ste pping back without looking, I bump into someone and nearly jump out of my skin at the unexpected contact. For some reason, my first thought is Dean, but when I turn, it’s just Nate, our ever-eager, youthful equipment manager.

“Whoa there, Ava. You okay?” he asks, his expression full of concern.

I let out a breath, feeling a little ridiculous. Nate is barely eighteen and looks as thrilled to be here as a six-year-old in front of a birthday cake.

“Fine.”

“Tipsy already?” he jokes, gesturing to the champagne I’m holding, but I’ve barely even taken a sip.

I half expect speeches and toasts, but none come. The atmosphere stays casual, lively. Though I catch glimpses of the three men I should be most cautious around, I keep my distance.

Just the memory of the “special treatments” I gave Eric and Levi sends heat creeping up my neck. I shove the thought away.

I know I’m treading dangerous ground, crossing lines I shouldn’t. But I did what I did because it was the best solution I could come up with .

‘Liar,’ my own brain accuses me. Sex wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t sex. Not technically, I argue with myself, though the defense feels weak. Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I already have.

Shaking off the mental tug-of-war, I weave through the suite, making sure coach and the other higher-ups see me. My appearance here matters, at least for now. The moment Cecille gets wrapped up in a conversation with Penny, I start edging toward the exit. I need to get out of here.

Sneaking out isn’t hard, and I’m relieved to find myself alone in the empty hallway. It’s darker out here than I remember, especially along one section where some of the overhead lights seem to be on the fritz, dimmer than the rest.

Unfortunately, that’s the way to the elevators.

I hear a door slam, and I spin around to see who it is. No one’s there, though. I don’t even know which door opened and shut. I rub my palms along my bare arms, suddenly cold in my short-sleeved dress despite it barely being autumn.

A shadow emerges far down at the other end, and my heart flies into overdrive. Panicking, I race to the elevators despite the high heels I’m wearing.

Goddamn stilettos.

Sti ll, I manage to cross the threshold of the elevator and plonk my finger on the button of my floor again and again. The doors are closing, thank god.

But before they can, an arm blocks it, an arm that I swear must be Dean’s.

And I have nothing left to do, but scream.