Page 88 of Pucking One Night Stand

Brody's eyebrow arches like a silent warning. I breathe deep. I don’t want to fight. Not this time.

The others start peeling off toward the entrance, leaving just the three of us and a few staff crossing the lot.

I look at Bishy again. No anger. Just the truth. “No. I was an asshole, Bish. I’m sorry.” I hold out my hand.

He looks at it like I’ve offered him a live grenade. His mouth twitches like he’s not sure whether to break my jaw or hug me.

Slowly, he grabs it and squeezes like he’s testing for fractures. “Yeah. You were. But I guess I was, too.” His voice roughens. “Since Thumper died, man… I’ve been mad at the world. Just wanted to fight anyone. You gave me that. So, I’m… I’m sorry too.”

He pulls me in hard and slaps my back like he’s trying to rattle a lung loose. “And I… no, we, all hope you don’t get fucking transferred, and that you get back on the team.”

I feel his grin against my shoulder.

“Can’t believe you fucking hit McCullum. That was classic.”

We break apart, and he slaps my arm, starts throwing light punches at my ribs, grinning like the bastard he is. I swing back, and next thing I know, we’re shoving each other like idiots.

Brody stands to the side, his arms lifted like some bored referee. “Quite finished, girls?” He nods toward the entrance. “Shall we?” He winks at me.

I grab my bag. And we head in.

The scanner beeps one by one as we swipe our ID cards, the doors click open with that familiar pneumatic hiss, and we step into the pulse of the arena.

It hits me like it always does, the drum of distant music from the gym, the rhythmic thuds of pucks slamming against boards, the sharp scent of liniment and industrial-strength cleaner. Always with the underlying smell of sweat and old tape.

It feels more like home than... well, home.

Staff weave around us. A couple of trainers wheel carts stacked with folded towels. One of the nutritionists holds a clipboard and calls out macros to a rookie who clearly doesn’t understand half of what she’s saying. One of the media interns, no idea what his name is, nearly crashes into a utility cart while staring at his phone.

Bishy walks ahead, already halfway down the corridor like he owns it. Brody hangs back beside me.

“So, what happened with Cassy?”

I stop. Turn toward him. “We’re okay. I cooked for her last night.”

Brody’s smirk blooms. “Oh, no.”

We fall into step again, our sneakers squeaking on the polished concrete.

“And what about McCullum?”

Just as we reach the locker room door, I slow down and nod. “I’m going to try and clear up that mess now.”

Brody pushes the door open, muttering as he goes, “Good luck with that one.”

He disappears inside. I don’t follow.Not yet.

Now, how should I play this?

I walk the corridor alone, my steps slowing as I pass the wide glass façade of the Media and Comms department. Floor-to-ceiling transparency. Cassy’s domain.

In my head, I see her sitting at her desk. Bossing people around with that mouth of hers. That brain. That fire.

Her image hits hard. Her with my kid. That thought's been getting louder in my head every damn day. I’ve never seen myself with one before, but now the idea won't shut up. Me. Her. A family.

And it fits. Not forced. Just… right.

I keep walking. I’ve got that grin now, the one that used to come right before I made a game-winning play that no one saw coming. One of those big, dumb lightbulb moments sparking in the back of my brain.