Page 73 of Penalty Box

I was about to express my feelings about this when Mason tensed against me. His head snapped up, eyes squinting in the direction of the roll-up door.

“What is it?” I followed his gaze, but couldn’t see anything. It was late, and all the main lights in the arena had been switched off.

He focused hard for a few more seconds then shook his head, relaxing back on the goalie pads with me. “Must’ve been my imagination.”

“The day I find someone working overtime at the arena, is the day I’m crowned queen of Egypt.”

“How about I just crown you queen of my heart instead?”

There was no other choice but to laugh, especially with the sheepish grin he was wearing. “Oh, God, that was so cheesy. Please don’t say anything like thateveragain.”

“Cheesy, huh?” He quirked a brow and propped himself up on his elbow. “What if I told you I was ready for round two? Would you think that’s cheesy too?”

He reached between my legs, one finger stroking me where I was still dripping wet, sensitive, and somehow, aching for more.

“At the risk of repeating myself… Oh, God.”

22

Mason

Practice started like a punch to the gut.

There was no ‘good morning’ from Coach. No cursory nod or glance in my direction. Just the sharp blast of his whistle and a barked instruction to circle up.

Grayson side-eyed me as we fell in line for drills, his jaw tight, mouthguard sticking out from under his lip like he wanted to say something. Probably better that he didn’t, because I wasn't sure if I could handle an onslaught from him too.

We skated hard, harder than usual. Coach didn’t bother easing us into anything, and had us in full-speed breakout drills within ten minutes. It kinda felt personal.

Grayson fired the first puck cross-ice, high and fast. I barely managed to control it with my stick, and when I passed it back, it skipped over his blade and died near the blue line.

“Way to hang me out to dry, Calder,” he muttered.

I said nothing. My legs already burned, and the pressure in my shoulder was turning from dull to a potential problem.

Next drill. Defensive zone cycle with pressure. Coach split us into two squads and had us rotate every thirty seconds.Grayson’s squad came at us like they were gunning for blood. In fact, Tucker looked a little too happy about charging me. He lost out though, because it was Hunter who clipped me from behind and sent me into the boards. Without time to brace, my shoulder ended up taking most of it.

The hit wasn’t called, and there was no whistle. Coach stood at center ice, stone-faced.

“Sure, whatever,” I mumbled under my breath as I pushed to my feet. “Let’s just pretend that was nothing.”

We kept moving, and I didn’t falter once. My shoulder screamed, but it wasn’t broken. Just angry.

Cross-ice sprint drills. Puck retrieval. Shooting on the rush.

I couldn’t breathe. My gloves were slick with sweat, and every time I took a shot, I felt the stab deep in my shoulder like something was tearing. I kept my mouth shut. Mostly because everyone seemed to be particularly pissed off with me.

“You’re falling behind when even Shawn’s lapping you, Calder,” Grayson said, skating beside me after a drill. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Coach blew the whistle again, and the guys rounded up like well-trained cattle on the world’s coldest ranch.

“I said I’m fine,” I grunted, and pushed off.

“Shooting lane work!” Coach called. “Grayson, Tucker, Mason—out front.”