Page 39 of Her Puck Daddies

But I’m not sure of that. I’m not sure at all. I bulldoze past each of them to reach the showers. I scrub myself so hard that pretty much every inch of my skin is red, then once I dry off and dress in my suit, I avoid everybody. I keep my head down, and thankfully our publicist doesn’t ask me to join the press conference that follows every game.

It’s in our contract to speak when told to, and I’ve done it every time in the past, just like a good little player. I just can’t dredge up the energy today. I guess I should be thankful the publicist didn’t call on me because I’m bitter.

Because I can’t get Ava off my mind.

I do everything over the next two days to quit thinking about her—about what she’s done for me. And Eric. Not that he knows I know. That isn’t helping, either. I’ve never been the kind of guy to keep secrets from my best friends, my brothers really, and now I’m keeping secrets from both of them.

My memories keep replaying the blowjob she gave me, the way the wet heat of her mouth around my cock sucked the sanity rightout of me, the way she looked up at me with those wicked, knowing eyes, fully aware of the mind-numbing release she was giving me.

Then, my brain fills in the blanks about what she did with Eric. I can picture it too clearly—her hands working him over with massage oil, the sounds she must’ve made to help get him off. To make matters worse, I can’t stop reliving that night in Jersey, too.

It’s like I’ve triggered something inside me, and now I can’t turn the fucker off.

Sure, I doubted her intentions at first, but that’s not what this is. And now, I can’t stop imagining being with her again. Which is exactly why I can’t be.

I’ve already pushed my luck by letting what happened on her table happen in the first place. Knowing that Eric gave in too just makes it that much more important for me to toughen up and avoid a repeat. I need to be the strong one, the one who holds out. Even if I didn’t when I should have.

I should’ve bolted off that table and out of there, even if it meant running through the damn building in my skivvies. But I didn’t. And now I have to live with that. That’s the real problem.

Myshoulder is fine. Physically, I’m fine. But no matter how often I stretch—several times a day, my earbuds blasting my usual heavy metal playlist—or push myself in workouts, when we play the Buffalo Sabres at our rink two days later, I stink up the joint.

Again.

All five of the shots on goal they take get in. It’s fucking mortifying. If I think they’re going for the five-hole, they aim high. If I anticipate left, they go right. If I commit to blocking the top corner, they sneak it past my skate. It’s like my instincts, the same ones I’ve depended on my whole damn career, are suddenly giving me false signals.

And I don’t know how to fix it.

This time, after the game, coach marches up to me. “What the hell’s up with you, Corolla? If your shoulder’s in pain, you’d better goddamn see to fixing it.”

“It’s not, coach. That’s not the issue.”

“Then, whatisthe issue?” He doesn’t bother to keep his voice down, and though I refuse to cringe at his ferocious tone, I hate this.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

“Dammit, Corolla, I—” He cuts himself off, like he just realized he’s essentially chewing me out in front of everyone—including the squad of reporters swaggering in, ready to pounce. His jaw tightens. “Get in my office. Now.”

I nod, stopping mid-strip. I might reek like a dirty sock, but when coach says jump, I do it. It’s part of the job. The worst part? I know he wants answers. And I don’t have any. Not ones I can give him, anyway. Not ones that won’t make this whole thing spiral even further.

Keeping my head down, eyes averted, I trudge into his office and shut the door behind me. He doesn’t hold back.

“You’d better tell me what the hell is going on with you, or I’m putting Steiner in against Minnesota. From the get-go.”

The Minnesota Wild is in a rebuilding year and shouldn’t be a real threat, but with my game in the gutter, who the hell knows. The threat is clear. He lets it hang between us, waiting for it to sink in.

“Did you hear me, Corolla?”

He knows I’d never tank hard enough to let our backup take over. Last season, Steiner didn’t get off the bench once, and I took pride in that—not because I want to keep him from playing, but because I have a reputation to uphold. You don’t make it to the pros by half-assing it.

Kind of like I appear to be doing now.

“I hear you, coach.” I hold back a huff.

“Well?”

“It’s a personal problem.”

“What sort of personal problem? Do you need a trainer? Or is this a Dr. Shrink thing?” he presses.