Page 130 of Pucking Around

“This is my seat,” I say, pointing to the kid. “He’s going up to 2A.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel mutters, shaking her head.

“I mean…yeah sure,” says the kid, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Hey—can I get a picture with you really quick?”

“Sirs, find your seatsnow,” the flight attendant orders.

The kid climbs out of the narrow seat, unafraid of the flight attendant’s threats as he pulls out his phone and leans in, snapping a selfie with me.

I sit down, folding my large frame into the impossibly narrow space.

“Jesus, Mars,” Rachel mutters. “Are you happy now?”

I am happier, yes.

“Ouch—god—hold on, you big tree.” She elbows me sharply as she shimmies the armrest up between us. It buys us two spare inches. “This is why I got you the first class seat. Professional hockey players aren’t meant to fly coach.”

I reach for the end of my seatbelt.

“Mars, stop grabbing my ass.”

“Then get off my seatbelt,” I mutter, tugging it loose from under her thigh. I do my best not to elbow her too aggressively in the process.

“God, we’re only an hour into this trip, and you’re already determined to drive me crazy,” she mutters, leaning away from me as I get the buckle fastened.

The plane starts to move, and the flight attendants begin their safety demonstration. I settle into my seat, letting out a low breath.

“Mars, why the hell did you do that?” Rachel murmurs, her dark brown eyes gazing up at me, all flecked with gold.

“Because I wanted to sit next to you,” I reply. Taking her hand, I weave our fingers together, balancing them on my knee. “No one sits next to you but me, Rakas.”

“Rakas?” she repeats with a raised brow. “What—is that Finnish for Rachel or something?”

“No.”

She hasn’t tried to take her hand away, which I’m taking as a good sign. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. Ilmari Kinnunen is methodical. I watch and I wait. I weigh my options. But with Rachel Price, there is no plan. I just do.

Right now, the thing I’m doing is holding her hand. And it feels fucking good.

She’s looking up at me, those dark eyes searching me, knowing me. I can’t get this woman out of my head. I’ve been trying for days. Weeks. Everything in me is telling me to walk away. She’s my doctor. To ask for more would be unprofessional. And I am not unprofessional. I do my job. I put in the work. I leave it all out on the ice. I don’t let emotion cloud my thinking.

Yet, here I am, flying on a plane on my off day, because she asked me to. Traveling to a strange city to meet a doctor I don’t know because she trusts them to help me. Offering a man $1,000 to move seats because I can’t be in the place where she is and not be by her side.

And now I’m holding her hand and she’s letting me. I don’t dare look down. I don’t move. I just breathe. Next to her. Her hand is so small in mine. I fight the urge to lean in, dropping my face to that place at her neck where I know she’ll smell sweetest.

What is this perfume she wears? The scent is soft and warm. It makes me think of lichen on rocks warming in the sun on a summer’s day. You put your hand on it and feel a heat that doesn’t burn. But it seeps through your skin, warming you all the same.

“Mars?” she says again, her free hand brushing down the bare skin of my arm. “You alright?”

“No,” I reply, giving her the honest truth.

I’m not alright. Nothing is alright. I’m at war with myself. Part of me wants to jerk my hand free and move away. No more Rachel Price. How many times have I said it? This needs to be finished. I need to put distance between us. But the idea of distance aches like a physical pain. No more distance. I want closer. I want touch. I want to drag her down the aisle of this plane and fuck her in the galley. I want us to sink to the floor, utterly spent, my cum sticky between her legs. I’ll wrap her in my arms and hold her tight, blocking out the rest of the world.

She sighs, leaning back against her seat. “Yeah…I’m nervous too,” she admits, giving my hand a little squeeze. “But it’s okay. We’ll get through this together, yeah?”

She thinks I’m worried about the scans. She thinks I’m worried they’ll be bad, that I’ll be out for the season and lose my chance at the Winter Olympics. I am worried. Of course, I am. But what’s wrong with me that now I’mmoreworried the scans will be clear?

Without this to bind us together, we have nothing. Without her caring about my physical health, I have no point of connection to Rachel Price. No reason to call, no reason to seek her out. I’ll have to watch her drift away, giving her full attention to other players.