Page 55 of Her Puck Daddies

“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 tryingto 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.

Chapter 20

LEVI

Ifeel 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.”

"Takes 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.