Page 23 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

AVA

I can’t believe Sven is trying to mansplain my own fucking occupation to me like I’m some country bumpkin who just fell off the turnip truck.

I’m the one who worked so hard to gain my certification, and I’m the one who has memorized every aspect of these men’s bodies so that I know what they need up on my table.

“It’s not that I’m trying to stop you from doing your job,” he explains as he pushes in behind me. Only once he’s inside my office with me does he shut the door. “I’m trying to keep you from getting hurt further.”

Talk about the irony. These men play with blood dripping everywhere and broken limbs.

I even read a story recently where on another team, one of them literally had a heart attack but kept going with severe pains radiating through his chest and down his left arm.

There’s a difference between being a tough badass and ignoring obvious signs of distress.

It ’s a wonder the man didn’t drop dead right in the middle of the rink. It sure would have been hard to win games then.

I could remind the captain that this is only a mild sprain, that I’m keeping it stabilized in a brace, or that if it starts to throb, I can always use my crutches—though I won’t mention how much those damn things make my underarms sore. Easy peasy.

But when I shift my weight, a sharp tweak shoots through my ankle, and I wince. My klutziness sends me off balance, and I have to grab onto my massage table to keep from toppling over.

Sven lets out a frustrated sound. “I don’t know how else to say this, but you’re being stubborn.”

Hello, Pot. Meet Kettle.

“It’s not stubbornness. I’m a grown woman with a job to do.” A job I’m damn well going to do whether he likes it or not. “So, if you don’t mind, I have another client I need to prepare for.”

I don’t, not for another twenty minutes, at least. But Sven doesn’t need to know that.

I expected some pushback, but not from him. Of the three, he’s always been the most level-headed and in control.

Yet now, he growls.

I c an’t explain why, but when he moves toward me, hand outstretched, something deep inside me misreads the motion.

Dean never hit me. Not once. But his temper was so sharp, so unpredictable, that I lived in constant fear that he might.

And now, with Sven closing in—not even aggressively, just moving—my body reacts before my brain has the chance to catch up. I jerk away too fast, my balance giving out, and suddenly, I’m crashing onto my ass.

Arms flying up to shield my face, I squeeze my eyes shut and yell, “No!”

The room falls into dead silence. The only sound is my rapid and uneven breathing, hovering on the edge of hysteria.

I’m curled in on myself, head down, lungs working overtime, and for a second, I think maybe he has left.

He hasn’t.

When I peek up, he’s still standing in front of me, fingers wrapped around one of my crutches, like he was about to hand it to me. Maybe that’s all he was doing. I don’t know.

But when I meet his eyes, I forget how to breathe entirely.

He staring at me, mouth slightly open, eyes wide with horror. His free hand is palm-up, held out like a surrender. Everything about him, his stance, his expression, reminds me of one word.

Stricken.

“Ava,” he whispers, a voice I’ve never heard from him before. Soft, careful. The way you’d speak to a young, frightened child. Or a wild animal backed into a corner.

Embarrassed, heat rushes over me, crawling up from my chest to my scalp.

What the hell am I doing down here?

I try to stand, but the moment I put weight on my ankle, pain zips through me, and I squeak, dropping right back onto my ass.

“Will you let me help you up?” Sven asks, his voice measured.

Since I don’t have much of a choice, I nod and look away. I may never be able to meet his eyes again. I’m such an idiot.

But Sven doesn’t just tug me up by the arm.

He leans my crutch off to the side, then, in one swift motion, drops an arm beneath my knees and another across my back, right where my bra strap rests, lifting me effortlessly and setting me down on my own massage table.

The space behind my eyes and nose stings, but I refuse to cry in front of him again. Otherwise, he’ll think I’m too emotional, maybe even someone not worth his time.

But Sven has other ideas. He tips my chin up, waiting for me to meet his gaze.

"I need to ask you something,” he says, voice low, steady. “And I need you to answer me honestly and completely this time. Do you understand?”

His voice is stern, similar to his sex-daddy tone, but far graver. Almost somber. Or maybe angry. But as his thumb glides gently over my cheekbone, I know that anger isn’t meant for me.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He clenches his jaw, his voice low. “Has someone hurt you?”

It’s a simple question, but it locks me in place. I want to shake my head. To scoff and say, of course not. But that wouldn’t be the truth. Not quite.

“Not… Not physically,” I manage to get out, but even as the words leave my mouth, they feel hollow. They don’t explain why I reacted the way I did. If I’m not a victim of some violent psycho, why the hell did I flinch like one? Even I don’t know.

“ No one has ever laid their hands on you?” he presses, watching me closely. And again, I answer him honestly.

“No.”

“But someone didn’t treat you right. Someone you trusted. Who?” His guess is spot on, and it unnerves me how accurate he is. “A romantic partner? A boyfriend?”

“My husband.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I’ve been trying so hard to distance myself from Dean, even though he’s being a complete ass about the divorce.

“You were married?”

“Technically, I think I still am.” Sven pulls his hands away from me immediately, like I’m a hot stove he’s just burned himself on. I feel the space between us grow. My internal struggle is getting the best of me.

God, Ava, get it together .

“But I’m divorcing him. I served him with papers before I left Newark. And everything was on track, until my lawyer recently said he hasn’t been able to reach him.”

And just like that, the whole, ugly story spills out.

Without mentioning his name, I tell Sven everything about Dean’s massage therapy business and how I worked for him.

How things went f rom good to bad to worse after we got married.

How Dean manipulated and gaslit me, gradually stripping me of my independence.

By the end, he even stopped paying me, trying to keep me trapped in his grip.

“I also caught him being an unfaithful jerk,” I continue, my voice tight, “so I made a plan and bided my time. When Cecile called to let me know the Avs had hired me, it gave me somewhere else to go, with the little bit of resources to follow through. So, I left. Escaped, really,” I finish, the anxiety obvious.

My heart is thumping loud enough to drown out everything else.

Sven’s features darken noticeably. “And this guy, he doesn’t know where you are?”

“No.” I quickly add, “He shouldn’t, at least. But he’s been a pain.”

Sven’s brow furrows even deeper. “How?”

“By harassing my best friend back in Newark.”

“So, this guy isn’t giving you the divorce you asked for and is going after your friend for information about you?” His incredulous tone makes it hit harder.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” I mutter, but the weight of his words settles in, making the reality feel even heavier.

“ How would you put it? Ava, you could be in danger. You’re scared of—what’s his name?”

“Dean Masters,” I sigh. Who am I defending anyway? Sven should know.

Sven’s gaze sharpens. “Your friend already put out a restraining order on him. Maybe you should, too.”

“Maybe, but I have nothing to prove that he’s been stalking me,” I explain, even though the thought has crossed my mind. “He doesn’t know where I live or that I’m traveling all over.”

“Where do you live?” Sven asks suddenly, his tone insistent.

“Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t be there alone.”

Not again.

“Sven, I can handle my problems by myself—”

A knock interrupts, followed by Brucker’s voice. “Hey, Ava, I’m here.”

I glance at Sven, then back at the door. “Gotta go,” I say, firm.

“Fine. But I’m taking you home later.”

“That’s silly and unnecessary.”

He crosses his arms, his biceps flexing with the movement. “Why?”

“Because it’s within walking distance of the stadium.”

“By the looks of it, you won’t make it past the gates of the arena.” Sven’s eyes flick to my brace. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

A part of me wants to push back. Sven isn’t the boss of me. And no man ever will be again.

Well, only in the bedroom, but that’s where I draw the line. Still, something about his demeanor holds me back. It doesn’t feel controlling or possessive. It feels… different .

Do I dare say that he cares about me? Like he’s trying to protect me, not cage me. Somehow, that thought softens the edges of my resistance.

Then again, I’m a poor judge of character, so what do I really know?

I nudge him toward the door, but he doesn’t budge. “I have to take care of Brucker now.”

To my surprise, he scoops me up off the table, setting me down gently on the ground.

He makes sure I’m steady before he steps back and hands me my crutches.

I want to be mad at him for trying to tell me what I should do.

I really do. But I can’t will myself to hold onto that anger. Not when he’s being this caring.

“Go,” I mutter.

“I’ll be here at five to take you home,” Sven says firmly, then turns the doorknob.

“Oh, hey, captain,” Brucker greets him without a second thought.

“Brucker,” Sven nods.

Then, he disappears, taking a piece of my heart with him.