Page 24 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

LEVI

I feel pumped while changing into my pads for practice. Eric is beside me, taping up his stick and rambling about what he wants for lunch. I only tune in when the words out of his mouth make me think he might be having a stroke.

“And a chopped steak with honey and whipped cream, then mashed potatoes made with brown sugar…”

“What?” I ask him, incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

He smirks. “See. I knew you weren’t listening.”

“Brown sugar in your mashed potatoes was a test?”

“Yep.”

I swat him on the bicep and chuckle, “Ass.”

"Ta kes one to know one,” Eric says with a smirk. “But what I was trying to ask was if you wanted to hit that new steakhouse over on Larimer. They’ve got a ribeye calling my name.”

“Sure. Whatever,” I reply, nonchalantly. But then the captain bursts in, his expression annoyed as he strips off his street clothes on the other side of me.

“What’s up your ass?”

“Too much to go into right now,” he huffs, his voice muffled as he pulls a shirt over his head.

Coach pops his head in, and I expect him to give his usual “show me what you’ve got” speech before practice. He’s not one for long wind-ups, but instead, he says, “Hey, you lugs, give Cecille your attention for a minute.”

Our office manager clasps her hands in front of her, as if preparing for a major announcement.

“I simply want to thank all of you for contributing to Ava’s get-well gift. You were all more than generous,” she says, giving us a quick wave. “Okay, that’s all.”

I always end up in the same place this time of year—so caught up in the season that I lose track of just how quickly time flies. It feels like October just started, yet here we are, already approaching the end of November.

To hammer that point home, practice flies by.

I stop all but one shot, and I’m feeling pretty good about it.

Our next game is in a week against the Winnipeg Jets, and they’re having a killer season.

They’ll be tough to beat, which only makes me crave a win even more.

I’m still thinking about that when Sven walks past, his face set in a frown.

Unlike me, his practice was a mix of successes and failures. He took six shots on goal but only managed to get two past Steiner. One of those was so sloppy that if it hadn’t deflected off Eric’s skate, it wouldn’t have even gone in.

Sven huffs as he walks by, and even though I’m not the most observant person, I can tell he’s not having a great day.

“What’s your deal?” I ask.

“Later,” he mutters.

But there’s no "later." Coach spends more time than usual showing us additional video on the Jets, and it makes me wonder if he’s worried they might pull something unexpected. Afterward, we head to the gym for individual workouts, and I’m just about to spot for Sven when our captain gets called into an impromptu meeting that clearly caught him off guard.

It’s almost lunchtime, and he still hasn’t come out. I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text.

Levi: Want us to wait?

Sven: Don’t know how much longer I’ll be. Better go without me.

That’s unusual, but we stick to our original plan. As we settle into the routine, Eric brings up a topic that’s been occupying my thoughts just as much.

“How long do you think it’ll take Ava to heal?”

I shrug. “Ten days to two weeks, maybe.”

If we’re lucky. Not that I should be so selfish right now. Sure, I’ve been looking forward to getting back in bed with her, but now that’s on hold for however long this takes. But her health is obviously more important than anything else.

What’s strange is this sudden urge to bring Ava to my place and take care of her. I could make her canned soup and serve her hot chocolate, no problem. Instead, my mind starts to wander, picturing myself helping her in the bath... and being right there beside her.

Hockey’s great for burning off all sorts of energy—except one.

Sexual energy. And that’s been building up to an almost unbearable level lately.

Normally, I’d have hooked up by now, whether with Sven and Eric or on my own with someone else.

But th is year, I’ve held off, wanting to focus on what I’m building with Ava.

Guess a little delayed gratification won’t kill anyone. But it sure the hell is getting harder to ignore the tension in my balls building up.

When Sven finally catches up with us later that afternoon, he’s in a rush. “I’m taking Ava home.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, but she’s all hyped about leaving without me. I’m not letting her do that.”

“Why?” Eric asks, his bottom lip poking out a little. “What’s going on?”

Sven’s already halfway through the doorway, the gleam of his blond head catching in the arena’s LED lighting. “I’ll tell you when I can.”

The mystery lingers in my mind, cluttering my thoughts for the rest of the evening.

Eric and I get home, and he immediately calls Sven on speaker. “Hey, you wanna come over after you get Ava settled?”

“I’m in,” Sven replies.

Goo d. There’s a lot going on with Sven today, and we need to figure out why he's been acting… off.

The Ranger vs. Stars game is on in the background, but I’m not really focused on it. My mind keeps wandering.

“Why do I have this feeling something big is happening behind the scenes? Something the organization isn’t telling us?” I blurt out, my gut tightening.

“I’m sure Sven will fill us in when he gets here,” Eric says. He doesn’t seem as concerned as I am, though.

The captain’s the only one of us with a no-trade clause in his contract, but that’s never been a big concern for me. After my rookie year went better than expected, I became a core player, close with Sven and Eric. I’ve been with the Avs for almost ten years. They wouldn’t trade me.

Right?

For the first time, though, I’m not so sure. This season’s been rough, and anyone without a no-trade clause can be moved at any time. I’ve been assuming things would stay the same, but now I’m questioning if that’s a mistake. At thirty-three, I’m a veteran—but not as much of one as Eric or Sven.

The trade deadline’s still months away, but it hangs over me. While most trades target younger players, not all of them do. And gi ven how tough this season’s been, the possibility of being moved has never felt more real.

March may be far off, but the uncertainty feels close. Four months is plenty of time for coach to make changes. And as much as I hate to admit it, this has been the hardest season I’ve had yet.

Is that why Sven keeps putting me off?

Eric orders Pad Thai, and while I love it, I only manage a couple of bites before setting the bowl down.

Normally, team captains aren’t informed of trades ahead of time, but what if coach is making an exception?

That thought keeps looping in my mind as Eric curses beside me from his rocker recliner.

“Fuck. Figures Dallas would take the title. They’re looking way too good this year.”

It’s well past six and dark outside when Eric and I get simultaneous texts. At first, I think it’s coach breaking the news about a trade, but then I wonder—if that were the case, why would he send it to Eric too? But when I check the message, it’s not from coach. It’s from Sven.

Sven : Get up here to my place. Now.

Eri c and I exchange a glance before heading up to Sven’s place. This is totally out of character for him, and I need to know what’s going on.

We all live in the same luxury condo complex—a ten-story building with a doorman and amenities that don’t come cheap.

Despite the upscale setting, Eric and I are pretty laid-back.

Our bachelor pads haven’t changed much over the years: big-screen TVs, essential furniture, but not much in the way of décor.

Sven, on the other hand, hired an interior decorator. His place looks like it could be featured in a celebrity magazine. His kitchen is a retro-futuristic stainless-steel design with a bar that’s more like a dining room table, surrounded by unique oval chairs instead of traditional barstools.

His home also features white tiles and neutral-patterned rugs, complemented by plants his housekeeper waters regularly.

The sofa is a massive double-sided lounger—basically a bed you can lie on in any direction.

There’s even a guest bathroom with black marble and what the designer calls “crimson accents.”

I give Sven a hard time about his opulence, but truth be told, I do like it. It’s just that everything is so pricey, we usually hang out at Eric’s or mine, where spilling beer on the furniture doesn’t seem as catastrophic.

As we climb the stairs to his place, my stomach twists in knots.

What’s so urgent that he’s called us up here without giving any explanation?

I knock on the door, growing impatient to find out what’s going on.

The last thing I expect is for Sven to hiss his instructions at us, all mysterious-like, especially when I spot Ava shuffling off on crutches.

“Get in here and help me convince her to move in with me.”