Page 13 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

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“ A aaah,” a woman shrieks inside the elevator car as I push past the metal doors.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask, realizing that the woman I’m asking is Ava.

“Uh, n-nothing,” she stutters out in a high-pitched voice, her body shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Sorry.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” I counter, watching her. She has both hands over her mouth as if to stop herself from making more noise, and they’re trembling so much that she’s smearing her lipstick.

While I’d usually love to smear a woman’s lipstick under more pleasant circumstances, that bright berry shade wiped across her chin like a mark of something gone wrong ignites every protective instinct I have again.

It’s like a switch flips, and I replay everything that just went down in my head, like a hockey game reel, dissecting each moment.

I realize I’ve been blocking the automatic doors from closing by standing in the doorway, so I step fully into the elevator car, letting the sensor signal the doors to slide shut.

The car starts its descent, and that familiar feeling of defying gravity sends my stomach into a half flip.

A soft ding overhead signals that we’ve passed another floor, but her reaction doesn’t change, her face still frozen in whatever state of distress she’s trapped in.

“Did I scare you somehow?” She’s been staring unfocused out into space but now she peers down at her pretty high heeled shoes as if afraid to look at me. “Because if I did, I didn’t mean to.”

For the first time since I entered this elevator, Ava’s eyes meet mine before flickering away again.

“It’s not your fault,” she says.

“Then, whose fault is it?”

She seems distracted as she rubs her hands over her arms more briskly, her gaze flitting around the carriage as if something or someone else could be hiding in here. “What?”

“ If scaring you isn’t my fault, then whose fault is it? I’ve never gotten into an elevator where someone was yelling at the top of her lungs. You’re upset, and I need to know why.”

“It’s nothing,” she says, frustrating me. “Just me being stupid.”

I wait her out. Something I’ve learned over my years as a captain on a professional hockey team is that most players aren’t truthful about things that cast them in a negative light.

Missed a pass because of being hungover?

Covering up a lack of concentration due to fighting with your wife and staying up to take care of a sick kid?

It happens. The men who rely on excelling at this sport to make their living often conceal so much beneath the surface. I’ve seen all the signs too many times—the shifty glances, the fidgety movements, the struggle to maintain their composure, no matter how hard they try.

And that’s precisely how Ava is behaving right now.

“You didn’t think I’d honestly come after you, right? Grab you or something?” I toss out, keeping her under my scrutiny.

“N-no.” There’s that stammer again. “Of course not.”

“Yet you shrieked. You were basically screaming bloody murder.” I pause for long enough to gauge any reaction she might have. Mostly, she continues to twitch around like someone enduri ng little shocks of static electricity. “Are you telling me that’s your regular elevator behavior?”

Finally, her expression alters from pale and terrified to annoyed. I’m glad to see the change, actually. It means she might be coming around.

“I thought you were someone else, that’s all,” she huffs out.

“Someone like who? Who did this?” Who the hell would make Ava feel so uncomfortable in a confined space like this? Has one of the guys been acting up? Pestering or even intimidating her?

“No one,” she whispers. “No one you would know.”

So, someone outside the league has been responsible for this, for scaring her.

My hackles rise, and my fists tighten. As a power forward, I don’t get into as many scraps as our defensive enforcer, Schroeder.

But I’ve never hesitated to drop the gloves when it’s necessary.

And if someone’s been harassing a woman in our organization, especially Ava, they’ve got one hell of a reckoning coming.

“No one with the organization?”

“No.”

“I need a name. Who did this to you? I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

She sighs. “Like I said, it’s no one you—”

“No one I know,” I cut her off. “I heard you the first time.”

“Then why—”

"Because if someone is threatening you or upsetting you to the point where you scream when another man gets too close, that means you’re living in constant fear. And Ava, that doesn’t sit right with me. No one gets to make you feel that way.”

My tone is aggressive, but I don’t give a damn.

The idea of her feeling this vulnerable does something to me.

My skin prickles like a live wire, and suddenly, I need to hit something.

I’m not the guy who throws punches just for the hell of it, but if someone put that fear in her, I’d gladly make them regret it.

You don’t mess with a woman under my watch. Especially not this one .

She’s mine. Not just because I’ve had her—moaning, trembling, completely undone beneath me—but because I see her now.

The real her. Genuine. Sweet. Hardworking.

A woman who doesn’t chase the spotlight, who deserves more than the world has given her.

And I’ll be damned if I let anyone take her safety, or her sense of peace away from her.

Despite the inner voice warning me not to, I can’t help myself.

I reach over, cupping her chin, tilting it just enough so her gaze locks with mine.

Her skin is softer than I expected, but far too cool for the warmth of a luxury hotel.

Yet, the second my hand makes contact, a jolt of electricity surges through me, sending a slow, molten heat flooding my veins.

It doesn’t just warm me—it burns, seeping deep, pooling low below the belt, stirring my cock to life with an ache that demands more.

I should pull away. I know I should. Because I can’t rush this.

Holding her like this, feeling the faint tremble beneath my fingertips, makes me want to drag her into my arms, bury her against my chest, reassure her she’s safe.

But at the same time, it awakens something darker, something deeper, something hungry. A craving. For her heat. For her surrender. For everything I know she’s capable of giving me.

Once another three pings chime from above us, the elevator bounces to a halt, and Ava breaks free of me.

“This is me,” she says.

“Yeah, it’s me, too.”

Pursing her full rosebud lips, she bounds off, whisking by me as if all I’ve been to her over the past few minutes is an inconvenience.

The jaunty march she uses makes her ample breasts jiggle and her flawlessly shaped ass move like a dream as she stomps down the corridor.

The thick carpet muffles her steps as she locates her room halfway down.

When I stop at my room three doors down and on the opposite side of the hall, she crosses her arms and mutters, almost indignant, “Wonder how we ended up on the same floor.”

“All of us share the same floor whenever there’s enough rooms to hold us on away games,” I explain. “Well, except for coach. He claims that we’re all a bunch of hoodlums who can’t stay quiet, so he likes to keep himself separate whenever possible.”

That’s why he has Cecille book him upstairs in the pricier suites, supposedly. Personally, I think he just has expensive taste.

Ava doesn’t bother responding. She slips behind her door without so much as a glance back, shutting me out completely.

I take the hint and head into my own room, more than ready to kick back. I like coach’s parties as much as the next guy, but after a night like this, I need a breather.

Still, if I wanted to, I could keep an eye on whoever comes and goes from her room just by looking out my peephole.

About forty-five minutes later, the familiar sounds of the team filtering onto our floor break the quiet—laughter, footsteps, doors slamming shut. Each time I hear movement, I peek out, casually noting who it is.

Nor mally, I wouldn’t bother, but tonight’s different. Ava’s different. I need to make sure no one is lurking around who shouldn’t be.

Another half-hour passes, and more footsteps echo down the hall. I mute the game on my TV, instincts kicking in as I glance through the peephole.

This time, it’s not one of the guys.

A man I don’t recognize steps out, not scanning for his room number like a lost guest, but moving like he’s skulking, like he doesn’t want to be seen. From my angle, there’s only one room he could’ve come from.

Ava’s.

Just like that, I’m bolting down the hallway and slamming my fist against her door. As much as a part of me wants to run after the guy and beat him to a pulp, I have to see to her first. When she doesn’t immediately show up, I pound harder, calling out her name.

“Ava? Are you all right? Open up, please.”

There’s a crash from the other side of her door, followed by an unmistakable yelp, and I nearly lose my shit trying to bust it down. Then, the door swings open, and I see red oozing from her chest, red like blood.

Wha t the fuck did I just walk into?