Page 42

Chapter twenty-seven

You named your dildo after a luxury fashion house

Chase

T he second the puck drops, I’m dialed the fuck in.

My legs are loose, stick steady in my grip, vision clear as hell. The ice is smooth beneath my blades, and the crowd’s nothing but a low roar in the back of my skull. White noise. Background bullshit.

I fly up the right side, skating hard to join the rush.

Jake feeds it to Logan, who gains the line clean, then drops it back to me at the point without looking—a trust move.

I drag it across the blue line, fake a shot, then thread a seam pass right through traffic to Eli on the doorstep, who buries it top shelf.

Bar down. Net ripper.

The horn blares, red light flares behind the net, and we mob the glass.

“Fuckin’ silkyyyy,” I yell, smacking Eli’s helmet. “That’s how we do it, baby!”

He grins. “Thought you were gonna snipe that one yourself.”

“Gotta let you old guys feel useful.”

Logan snorts behind us. “He’s cocky tonight.”

Damn right I am.

I skate back to the bench, adrenaline thrumming through my limbs. Coach Benson glances my way as I hop over the boards. His arms are crossed, mouth twitching like he’s trying real hard not to be amused.

Yeah, Benson. I see you.

Maybe it’s the post-road-trip legs. Maybe it’s the fact that I got laid so thoroughly this past weekend, I’m still sore in places I didn’t know could get sore. Or maybe it’s just that I’m playing like I’ve got something to prove.

Because I do.

The whole league’s been chirping ever since that damn sex tape dropped. Media calling me reckless, management side-eyeing every headline like I’m about to ruin the whole franchise with one dumb move.

But tonight, I’m reminding every single person in this barn exactly why I’m here.

I take my next shift at the start of the second. We win the draw clean in the offensive zone, and I crash low toward the net. Logan digs the puck out of the corner, sends it to the point, and Ryan fires a laser from the blue line.

The rebound kicks out to me near the bottom of the circle. I fake the slapshot, step around their winger, then snap it five-hole before the goalie can reset. He doesn’t even know it’s in until I’m already celebrating with a stick raise and a glove to my ear.

I glide past their bench, tapping the boards just loud enough for them to hear it over the ref’s whistle. “Tell your goalie to close his legs next time.”

A couple of them bark back, which is standard, and I give them a wink. Classic chirping bullshit. But my blood’s pumping, and everything feels right . Sharp and on point.

By the time the third rolls around, I’ve got two apples and a goal to my name, and I’m still buzzing.

I take a hit along the boards, but bounce off it like it’s nothing, spinning out and keeping the puck magnetized to my stick. I dish it back to Logan at the blue line, then circle behind the net to reset.

And then I hear it—the unmistakable sound of a cross-check, hard and deliberate.

I whip my head around just in time to see one of their wingers slam Logan into the glass, late and dirty as hell. The ref blows the whistle, but it’s already too late. I see red.

By the time Logan’s peeling himself off the ice, I’m already skating in fast, cutting across the zone like a goddamn missile.

I drop my gloves before I even reach the bastard.

We square up at center ice, fists raised and crowd roaring in our ears. He’s taller, built like a cement truck, but I’m faster. I land the first shot clean to his cheekbone, and when he tries to throw a hook, I duck under it and catch him with a right that knocks him back a step.

He gets one in on my jaw, more of a glancing blow than anything, but I don’t flinch. Just reset my stance, wait for the opening, then drive my fist into his chin with a sharp uppercut that sends him sprawling.

The refs haul me off as the arena explodes, the glass shaking from the boys pounding it behind the bench.

“That’s our boy!” Logan yells, helmet half-off, lip bleeding and grinning like a maniac.

Coach shakes his head, muttering something to the trainer, but he’s smiling.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, we’ve closed it out 4–2, and I’ve earned first star of the game.

Afterwards, I strip off my gear in the locker room with a towel around my neck, sweat still cooling on my skin. Benson strides in, claps a hand on this whiteboard, and gives us a rundown of the next morning’s schedule.

Then his gaze lands on me.

“Walton.”

I lift my head. “Coach.”

He gives me a long once-over, then nods.

“Whatever the hell you did this weekend…” He pauses. “Do it again. You looked like a fuckin’ sniper out there.”

Jake snorts from two stalls down. “Pretty sure he was sniping. Just not on the ice.”

Laughter breaks out around the room.

I grin, wiping sweat from my neck. “Just got a good night’s sleep, Coach.”

Benson rolls his eyes but doesn’t push. “Well, rest up while you can, Walton. Media’s gonna be up your ass after that game.”

***

The post-game buzz is still humming under my skin by the time I step out of the shower, towel slung low around my hips, hair wet and curling at the ends.

My knuckles are a little bruised, my jaw’s sore from that one half-assed jab he managed to land, and my ribs ache in a way that reminds me I played hard and left it all out there.

I fucking needed that game.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand as I collapse back on the hotel bed, flipping it open to see the group chat lighting up.

Sticks out for the boys ??

Logan : first star of the game? who the fuck are you and what did you do with Chase

Jake : man’s been getting it regular. he’s fully reformed

Eli : you mean whipped

Logan : nah, he’s domestic now. bet he makes her tea and shit

Jake : tea?? he probably folds her laundry and fluffs her pillows too

Me : i will fight all of you. with my bare hands

Eli : bold of you to talk violence after that celly. my guy nearly blew kisses to the crowd

Ryan : be honest though. was that for the fans or for Zoe?

Me : depends… will the fans wear my jersey and sit rinkside looking like a fuckin snack?

Reid : i’m gonna be sick

Jake : Zoe deserves a medal. we need to rescue her

Me : she’s not complaining

Reid : yet

Logan : ok but real question. if she leaves you, do we get her in the breakup

Jake : we’ve already agreed we’re keeping Zoe. Chase gets weekend custody and that’s it

Me : fuck all of you

I shake my head, but I’m smiling like an idiot. These guys are dicks, but they’re my dicks. Which is… not a sentence I’ll ever say out loud.

I back out of the chat and open the one I actually want. Zoe. She’s probably asleep or working late. Or purposefully making me suffer. All are equally likely.

But then, right as I start to close out, her name pops up.

I open it, heart rate kicking up, which is ridiculous because I only saw her two days ago before we left for these away games.

Spent the weekend making her come so hard she threatened to cancel hockey season entirely.

But it’s been radio silence since morning, and I’ve been pathetically waiting to see her name pop up like some lovesick fool.

Zoe : Congrats on the goal. Looked real aggressive when you slammed that guy into the boards for no good reason

Me : you love it when I get violent. don’t lie.

Zoe : Debatable. But the celly was hot.

Me : you wanna see it again, sweetheart? i can give you a private version

Zoe : go to sleep, Walton

Me: say it nicer.

Zoe: goodnight, Chase ?? Don’t let the man-eating PR reps bite.

Me: only letting one of those in my bed, and she’s three states away right now so my night’s pretty bleak.

Zoe: what a shame for your dick. Tell him to write a sad poem about it

Me: he’s thinking about your red lipstick

Zoe: Go. To. Sleep.

Me: can’t. hard as fuck

Zoe: I have a 9am meeting tomorrow

Me: bet you’d sleep better if you came first.

Zoe: bet you’d sleep better if I told you to fuck off.

Me: mmm, I love it when you talk dirty

Zoe: ?? eye roll

Me: dream of me

Zoe: unlikely

Me: liar

Zoe: goodnight, Chase

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering. And then I type out three words. Delete them. Then type out four. No jokes or winks, just one truthful message, shielding an even bigger one.

Me: Wish you were here.

Delivered.

And then I set my phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling like a fucking idiot. Because I really, really do.

***

It’s late, and the hotel room’s dark. Too fucking quiet.

I’m floating somewhere between sleep and static, sweat at the back of my neck, my brain trying to claw itself out of a memory I don’t want to relive.

The ice on the rink is cracking. My skates won’t move, I see Logan’s stick snap, except it’s not Logan—it’s Jordan.

My lungs burn, and then I’m under the ice.

I bolt upright, gasping like I’ve surfaced from a lake in the dead of winter. I drag in air, trying to ground myself, fisting the sheet where it’s tangled around my legs. My whole body shakes, breath ragged, chest tight like I just finished a bag skate.

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to remember the fucking counting exercises.

Five things I can see: The hotel lamp and bedside clock. My shaking hand. The duffel bag in the corner. My phone screen blinking.

Four things I can touch: Scratchy sheets. Sweat-soaked hair. Tension in my fists. The towel I never moved.

Three things I can hear: The hum of the AC. A car outside. My own damn heartbeat.

Two things I can smell: Chlorine from the post-game soak. Disinfectant. Nothing grounding.

One thing I can taste… Her. Even without her here, I can still taste her. Strawberry lip gloss and breathy laughter and the way she whispers fuck, Chase like she means it.

I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it. Her name’s already on the screen with an unread message: You too .

I hit the video call, because fuck it. I just need to see her.