Page 13 of Her Puck Daddies

Not that I’d ever admit that. I’ve made my share of mistakes—some impulsive, some regrettable—but I refuse to be the reason all four of our careers go up in flames.

I spend most of the night staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, unable to shake the uneasy feeling curling in my stomach. And it’s not the shitty futon cushion keeping me up.

It’s the what-ifs.

What if I wrecked any chance at professionalism before I even started? What if I hadn’t walked into that bar in Newark? If I could rewrite the past, maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t.

But what makes my chest tight with frustration isn’t just regret—it’s the fact that they’re acting like this is allmyfault.

By the time morning rolls around, I do what I do best. I fake it. A bright, chipper smile, an upbeat good morning as I step into work, and a grateful acceptance of the surprisingly decent breakroom coffee like it’s a lifeline. God knows I need it. My sustenance lately has been laughable—chips, single-serving microwave meals, bottled water. It’ll do until I get paid. I stir in some half-and-half, adding a few packets of sugar, letting the motion distract me. A breath. A moment of calm. And then—

A familiar voice.

I stiffen before I even look.

Sven.

He moves through the room like he owns it, his presence effortless, his voice smooth and unbothered. And then Cecille introduces us.

I brace myself, pulse kicking up.

And just like that, he looks at me—cool, composed, unreadable—and does a damn good job of pretending he doesn’t know me.

Especially not biblically.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, but I better get on the ice.”

Regardless, I fully expect a repeat of what happened with his teammates. If Levi and Eric didn’t bother to show, there’s no reason to think Sven will, either. I even consider shuffling my schedule around, adjusting my roster of players just to avoid dealing with another empty appointment slot.

Good thing I don’t. Because when the clock ticks over to 10:00 AM, the captain himself saunters right through my door like he owns the place.

I’m so shocked that initially, I stand there as frozen as Blucifer. The only difference? At least my reputation isn’t nearly as infamous.

He closes the door behind him before he speaks.

“Hey, Ava. Where do you want me?”

I gesture toward my table. “Go ahead and get undressed and cover yourself with the blanket facing down, and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

He nods.

I return to find him lying down as instructed. I rub some massage oil over my hands before I begin.

“Are you having any pain?” Sven’s records indicate that he has an ACL tear on his left side along with the typical bumps and bruises that come with the sport. Seems no one gets out of playing hockey without damage.

“Not today.”

“Pressure okay?” I ask, as I start at the cervical curve of his spine and work downward.

“Pressure’s great.”

I continue, and after that initial hesitation, I’m able to work myself into a routine pattern with him. Maybe due to Sven’s features not being visible, it’s easy to pretend he’s just another player who I don’t really know. At least until it’s time for him to flip from a prone position into a supine one.

“Okay. Can you turn face up for me?”

He does, and I carefully readjust his blanket, making sure nothing is exposed. It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen it all before,feltit before. That I’ve had him stretching me open, filling me in a way that left me breathless. I don’t need the reminder, so keepingthe impressive size of his kibbles and bits concealed is absolutely necessary.

I swallow as soon as he stills, my gaze skittering away from his face. But even avoiding direct eye contact doesn’t help, because he’s still there—all golden hair and defined lines, impossible to ignore even in my peripheral vision.