Page 50

FOUR MONTHS LATER

There’s blood on the ice. Again.

This time, it's Cappy sprawled on his back, red pooling beneath his head as he groans. Trainers surround him, but I watch Lena kneel on the ice in her scrubs, her movements calm and precise as she examines our captain's mouth.

It happened fast—high stick from a Buffalo defenseman, no penalty called, and Cappy dropped like a stone. Now, the whistle has blown, and all of us are standing on the bench, watching Lena work.

"She's a fucking miracle worker," Banksy mutters beside me. "Remember when Doc Bowman would have guys spitting teeth into a towel and sending them back out?"

I nod, trying to maintain professional distance even as pride surges through me.

I fidget with my stick, covered in rainbow pride tape.

On the ice, Lena extracts something from Cappy's mouth—a splintered piece of the offending stick, I realize—and drops it into a metal pan held by a trainer.

She says something that makes Cappy laugh despite his pain, then administers an injection with practiced efficiency.

"Dental block," Coach says, appearing at my shoulder, tugging at his tie covered in rainbow hockey sticks–a new regular part of his game-day ensemble. "He'll be numb in about thirty seconds."

Sure enough, within a minute, Cappy is being helped to his feet.

The crowd cheers as he skates toward the bench, where Lena gives him final instructions.

When she turns to head back through the tunnel, our eyes meet briefly.

Professional on the surface, but I catch the glint of something warmer beneath.

"Stop looking at her ass," Tucker hisses, elbowing me as we prepare for the faceoff.

"I'm admiring her professional demeanor," I counter, readjusting my helmet.

"Sure you are."

Coach shouts our line change, and we hop the boards together, all business once more. But as I settle into position for the faceoff, I can't help the small smile beneath my mouthguard. Months with Lena, and I still get a kick out of watching her work.

We won the season opener 3-1, with Cappy returning to score the insurance goal in the third period.

The locker room was electric afterward, with everyone riding the high of starting the season right.

I rushed through my shower, fielded a few questions from the media about our defensive strategy, and politely declined offers from the guys to grab celebratory drinks.

"Hot date with the tooth fairy?" Banksy teases as I throw on a T-shirt and jeans while the rest of the team gets dressed for the clubs.

"Just tired," I lie, avoiding Tucker's knowing smirk from across the room.

The arena has mostly emptied by the time I slip through the door at the back of the locker room.

According to the disclosure agreement we filed with the team, Lena and I maintain strict professionalism during working hours.

She handles other players' dental emergencies and recuses herself for mine–not that I’ve had any–while I keep my hands to myself until we're off the clock.

Technically, we're still on the clock, but over the past few months, we've gotten pretty creative with our definition of "working hours.”

Light spills from her arena office into the darkened corridor. Inside, I find her cleaning instruments, her back to the door, still in her professional attire—black scrubs with "Dr. Sinclair" embroidered above the pocket in gold thread.

I close the door behind me, turning the lock with an audible click. She doesn't turn around, but I see her shoulders straighten and a slight pause in her movements.

"Dr. Sinclair," I say, keeping my voice formal. "Got a minute?"

"That depends, Mr. Stag." She sets down an instrument and turns to face me, her expression serious except for the spark in her eyes. "Is this a professional consultation?"

I close the distance between us, backing her against the leather chair. "Strictly personal."

Her hands come up to my chest, not quite pushing me away. "The disclosure agreement specifically states?—"

"That working hours end when the final buzzer sounds," I finish for her. "That was twenty-seven minutes ago."

"Was it?" A smile plays at her lips. "I must have lost track of time."

"Let me help you find it." I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, soft at first, then deeper as she melts against me.

"Congratulations on the win," she says when we part, her cheeks flushed in that way I've come to adore.

"Thanks for saving our captain." My hands find her waist, lifting her onto the counter with ease. “It’s so wild to me how you just reach into all that gore and clean it up.”

She wraps her legs around me, pulling me closer. "Just doing my job."

"Speaking of jobs..." My lips find the sensitive spot below her ear that always makes her shiver. "I saw you watching me on that second-period penalty kill."

"You were extremely competent," she says with mock indifference, even as her head tips back to give me better access to her neck.

“Competent?" I nip at her throat in retaliation. "I blocked two shots in thirty seconds."

Her laugh turns to a gasp as my hands slide beneath her top. "Perhaps slightly above average performance."

"I'll show you above average," I growl, and then we're both laughing and kissing, hands fumbling with buttons and zippers, heedless of our surroundings.

We've become experts at this—finding moments and spaces to be together despite our demanding schedules.

Sometimes, it's rushed and desperate, like now, with Lena’s scrub pants flopping around one ankle and my jeans barely pulled down, her dental chair reclined to the perfect height.

Other times, we take our time, spending whole weekends barely leaving my bed, exploring each other at the leisurely pace of people who know they have all the time in the world.

"God, I love you," I breathe against her neck as we move together, her knees spread as wide as the chair arms allow while she straddles me.

"I love you too," she gasps, fingers digging into my shoulders through my shirt. "Faster."

I comply, plowing up into her, my bare ass on the leather, and soon she's shuddering against me, biting my shoulder to muffle her cries. I follow shortly after, burying my face in her hair to stay quiet.

For a moment, we simply breathe together, foreheads touching, heartbeats gradually slowing. Then Lena laughs softly, kissing the corner of my mouth.

"So much for professional boundaries," she whispers.

"We're off the clock," I remind her, helping her straighten her clothes before fixing my own. "Besides, no one's around this late after a game."

As if the universe wants to prove me wrong, we hear a noise from the adjoining locker room—between a curse and a sob.

Lena and I exchange concerned glances. I hop up to pull up my pants while she smooths her hair.

"Probably a custodian," I whisper, but neither of us believes it.

We move cautiously toward the connecting door, following the sound to the shower area. What we find stops us in our tracks.

Tucker sits huddled in the farthest stall, still half-dressed in pads, hunched forward, shoulders shaking.

"Tuck?" I approach slowly, worry replacing the post-coital haze. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He looks up, startled, seemingly unsurprised to find us together. His eyes are red, and his face blotchy in a way I haven't seen since our grandfather died.

“She’s pregnant,” he says, voice raw.

I exchange a look with Lena, who seems as concerned as me.

I climb into the shower with my twin, wrapping my arms around him.

Lena mimes, packing a bag, and I nod as she steps out, giving us privacy.

“Tuck, what’s going on, man?”

My brother takes a shaking breath. “I fucked up, Aldy.” He drags a hand down his face. “And he knows it’s me...”

"What can I do?"

“Nothing,” he wails, leaning his head against my shoulder.

Eventually, I convince him that he reeks. I step out to let him shower, and then Lena and I drive him home, promising to get his car with him in the morning .

Back at the townhouse, I can’t help but compare Tucker’s anguish to my happiness. Six months ago, I couldn't imagine anyone filling the emptiness I felt before Lena. Now, I can't imagine my life without her in it.

As she slides into bed beside me, I'm reminded of the small velvet box hidden in my sock drawer, waiting for the perfect moment. Not yet, but soon.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, curling against my side.

"How grateful I am that we found each other," I say, kissing her forehead.

As she drifts off to sleep in my arms, I think about how whatever comes next—Tucker's drama, the long season ahead, the ring in my drawer—I know we'll face it together.

Lena and I are no longer playing for payback but forever.