Page 57 of Her Puck Daddies
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 given 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.
Eric 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.
Aswe 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.”
Chapter 21
ERIC
Under any other circumstance, I’d assume Sven was fucking with us. Because he hasn’t had a live-in girlfriend in years.
Sure, Ava agreed to let us share her again, but what the hell does that have to do with her suddenly becoming the captain’s roommate?
Unless… he means for her to be more than just his roommate.
Levi is staring at Sven like he’s grown a second head, and I’mthisclose to doing the same.
“Are you kidding?” I ask, even though Sven’s stone-hard expression tells me he’s dead serious.
“I just came from the shack she calls an apartment,” he grits out, his voice so low Levi and I have to lean in just to hear him. “It’s a pathetic box over a garage with barely any heat. What the fuck is she gonna do when the temps drop below zero? What then?”
It’s rare to see Sven agitated. His whole body is practically vibrating with frustration.
“So, she can’t afford much?” Levi asks carefully.
“Exactly.” Sven nods sharply, every movement exaggerated, tense, pissed. “I got her to come over, but she wouldn’t even pack a bag. And honestly? What does she even have to pack? A few sets of scrubs? A handful of clothes?”
His jaw tightens, and his next words come out low, firm, possessive. “I’m not okay with her living like that.”
That’s good enough for me, but Sven isn’t done. His voice is low, firm, deadly. “And she’s got a philandering asshole of an ex-husband. Or soon-to-be ex. She gave him divorce papers, but the bastard won’t sign them.”
I clench my jaws, but he keeps going, his expression darkening. “And that’s not even the worst part. He’s been intimidating her best friend back in Jersey, trying to track Ava down.”
The whole thing is a goddamn mess.