Page 97 of Pucking One Night Stand

Peters and McAvoy are wrestling on the floor near the jukebox, laughing and swearing and somehow spilling three drinks at once.

Bishy’s got a pitcher of Beer tilted like it’s a solo cup. Valerie is next to him, tapping his shoulder. He doesn’t notice. She looks like she’s either going to dump beer on his head or drag him to a corner and make out with him. Maybe both.

Total chaos. Total Aces.

And I’ve got Cassy in my arms.

She’s leaning into me, her cheek pressed against my chest, and we’re swaying to some slow, old rock song I don’t even recognize. It doesn’t matter.

Her fingers curl around my shirt, dragging just a little. Her hips shift against mine in a way that has no business being legal in public.

So, with an erection in my pants aching more by the second, I smile at her, one I only give when I’m up to something.

I tilt her chin up, kiss her once, just long enough to make her lips part. Then I murmur low into her ear, “You want to get out of here? If you want, I’ll show you the locker room.”

She doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes burn, dark and mischievous. “Great chat-up line, Mitchell. But only if you promise to rip my clothes off when we get there.”

I laugh, sharp, rough, thrilled. “Your wish is my command, babe.”

I grab her hand and we bolt for the door.

Chapter fourteen

Cassy

Hand in hand, we dash out of the bar like we’ve stolen something, and honestly, we kind of have. A moment. A feeling. That wild, grinning, adrenaline-drunk high of winning and wanting.

The Lounge behind us fades into silence as we race through the empty concourse of the arena. Compared to the chaos earlier, the blaring horns, screaming fans, the pounding of blades on ice, it’s damn near a mausoleum now.

The glossy floor’s scuffed from the night’s traffic, crushed popcorn trailing in every direction, and abandoned drink cups are tipped over like casualties. The air still carries that sharp tang of sweat, ice, and overcooked nachos.

“Blake, slow down!” I laugh, but I’m barely breathing. My shoes were not made for this much cardio. “I’m wearing heels, you psycho.”

“No chance,” he grins over his shoulder, not breaking pace. He’s dragging me like some overexcited Labrador with a six-foot-two stride.

We fly past shuttered concession stands. Lights flicker overhead, the screens are still cycling game highlights. ACES WIN flashes in aggressive red like it’s yelling at the empty arena.

I trip over a flattened hot dog wrapper and nearly face plant, but Blake yanks me upright like it’s nothing. I swear he doesn’t even notice.

“Where the hell are we going?”

“Shortcut. Section ten.”

We veer right, barreling down a hallway with maybe two staff members in sight, both of whom wisely pretend we don’t exist.

Blake swipes his ID.

The secure door clicks open, the world behind us slipping into darkness as we enter the underbelly of the building. Gone is the crowd noise, the beer-stained laughter, the pulsing beat of post-game music. Here, it’s all fluorescent buzz and sterile floors.

He stops so fast I nearly slam into him.

And then he kisses me.

No warning, no preamble, just his mouth crashing into mine, rough and demanding, like he’s still skating full tilt and I’m the only thing that can stop him.

His hand fists in the back of my shirt, and I feel myself melt and ignite at the same time.

I clutch the front of his shirt like I might fall if I don’t, and it’s frantic, heat surging under my skin. There’s no finesse, no tenderness. Just hunger.