Page 4 of Her Puck Daddies

“Maybe she just fainted,” Sven suggests, and I hope he’s right.

I exhale slowly, my fingers working at the leather wristband wrapped snug around my wrist. I twist it, roll the edge undermy thumb, press it between my fingertips—anything to keep from completely unraveling in front of everyone. This is exactly why I’m not cut out to be around women in the absence of my buddies. I’m terrible at interactions outside my immediate circle that don’t involve a simple, no-strings hookup. Long-term relationships? Not my thing. For whatever reason, I’m missing that gene that allows most people to be social without acting like some lunatic psycho, especially when something goes off the rails.

The scent of the flight attendant’s fabric softener and cologne drifts over us, and right on cue, Eric sneezes. Hard.

That’s the problem with him—he might be one of the highest-scoring, toughest motherfuckers of a defenseman on the ice, but he’s allergic to damn near everything. And now he’s stuck in a sneezing fit, his record being eleven in a row.

Hottie coughs, her eyelids fluttering. “Wha…” Cough, cough. “What’s going on?”

I heave a thundering sigh of relief, fingers still fidgeting with my wristband.

Shit like this is why I don’t do emotions. I observe, I analyze, I stay skeptical—both on and off the ice. It comes with being a goalie. I’m wired to read angles, anticipate plays, and block whatever’s coming at me. The problem is, I don’t know how toturn that off when it comes to people. Everyone has an agenda, and I can’t always tell the difference between a pass and a setup. I just know that I have to stay ready.

"You passed out. Do you have any medical conditions we should know about?" the flight attendant asks.

Hottie shakes her head—then immediately winces, grabbing onto her skull like that simple motion just sent a jackhammer through it.

"No." She sits up, blinking hard, still looking woozy. "No… I don’t."

She glances first at the flight attendant, then at the three of us looming nearby, her eyes bouncing between us like she’s trying to piece together how the hell she ended up in this situation. She sounds about as convincing as Sven that time he tore his ACL and swore up and down he could walk to the locker room, despite limping so hard I thought he might faceplant any second.

Then, as if we’re not all standing right here, she groans dramatically and mutters, “Why do I have to make a fool of myself in front of these beautiful men? Why?”

Wait. What?

Did she seriously just say that? Out loud?

Maybe she’s sick. Or high. Or drunk. Our night with her involved plenty of social lubrication. But as I study her, I can’t help but notice how out of it she seems. Maybe she didn’t mean to say it. Maybe she doesn’t even realize she did.

Or maybe I’m not the only one who gets weird in crowded situations. It’s one thing when I can hip-check a guy into the boards and take control of the play. But being jammed into a space like this, surrounded by people, nowhere to go? Yeah, that shit unnerves me too.

“You going to tell us if you’re all right?” I ask, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

Sven immediately jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. I scowl at him. “What?”

“Jesus, do you have to bark at her like a goddamn dog, Levi?”

Was I? Must’ve been. But Hottie either doesn’t notice or is too out of it to care.

“I’ve been better,” she mutters, wincing as she grips her head and tries to sit up. My stomach clenches. Did she hit it? Could she have a concussion? A fractured skull?

“Stay still,” both the flight attendant and Sven order at the same time, their synchronized concern making me even more antsy.

“Are you nauseous at all, hon?” the flight attendant asks, his voice gentle but firm.

“No.”

“Are you seeing double?” Eric pipes up from behind me.

I roll my eyes. Our defenseman doesn’t have a single ounce of medical training, but that’s never stopped him from inserting himself into conversations like he’s the leading expert. Sven once told me he thinks Eric just hates being left out. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know it annoys the hell out of me.

“No,” Hottie says, her tone a little stronger this time. “I have a headache, but I had it before. I don’t think it’s related.”

Still, I don’t like how unsteady she looks. Or how easily she went down in the first place.

I’ve seen guys with head injuries before, and if she has one, it doesn’t seem as severe as those. Not that I’m any kind of specialist. But the color’s back in her complexion now, and if anything, those red spots high on her cheeks stand out.

Hottie is very attractive, but sexy women are around us all the time. Once, as I came off the ice, a puck bunny literally flashed her tits at me—just flopped them right out and smashed them against the plexiglass for everyone to see. Back when I first started, I was dumb enough to be shocked by that kind of stunt. Andyeah, I took what they offered way more times than I’d like to admit.