Page 81 of Pucking Strong (Jacksonville Rays #4)

R ip’s is bursting at the seams. The outside bar area is packed with Rays, Hawks, and all the fans who caught wind of our karaoke night.

More people seem to be arriving every minute.

The waitstaff are so overwhelmed that it’s taken twenty minutes just to get our first round of drinks.

At this rate, it’ll be midnight before I get my garden burger and fries.

Teddy sits on a stool at the bar, and I stand behind, my hands bracing the bar to either side of him.

Call me possessive, but Hawks are swarming all around, and I know at least one of them has their eye on him.

If Teddy would just tell me who, I could stand here brooding and watch the man until we leave.

I asked again in the car, but Teddy just groaned and told me to drop it.

Now he’s deep in animated conversation with DeGraw, who sits on the stool next to him.

They’re discussing the merits of some statistician who works for the team.

I get the feeling Teddy is trying to boost his confidence enough that he’ll ask the woman out.

“But what if she’s perfect for you?” Teddy cries with a wave of his hand.

“What if she’s a lesbian?” DeGraw retorts.

Teddy snorts into his beer. “Oh god—I think I just got beer up my nose.”

Reaching between them, I grab a napkin and hold it up for him.

He takes it, dabbing at his chin. “Thanks, babe.” Then he’s turning back to DeGraw. “All I’m saying is that you won’t know until you ask her.”

DeGraw’s eyes go wide. Then he grabs Teddy’s arm. “You could do it.”

“Do what?”

“Ask her for me.”

“Ohmygod.” Teddy wrenches away from him. “Ask her out for you? Or ask her if she’s a lesbian? Honestly, both are super pathetic, Hunt. You need to just be a big hockey player and ask her yourself.”

Groaning, DeGraw folds his arms on the bar top and slams his head down with a thunk that rattles their beer glasses.

Teddy laughs, giving his back a consoling pat. “Cheer up. Maybe you’ll find out she’s a lesbian with an exhibitionist kink. That could be fun, right?”

Whatever DeGraw replies is lost to the sound of someone strumming an electric guitar on stage. All around us, the crowd starts to cheer.

Teddy spins around on his stool and leans in, shouting in my ear, “I’m gonna go use the bathroom before karaoke starts. Save my stool. And order DeGraw another beer so he can drown his sorrows.” Patting my shoulders, he pecks my cheek and darts away.

I take his place on the stool, gesturing at the bartender for another round. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch Teddy weave away through the crowd. As he passes the corner booth by the door, one of the Hawks slams down his beer, rises from his table, and follows.

My heart drops from my chest.

DeGraw leans in and shouts, “So, what are the chances you’re gonna sing tonight?”

“Save Teddy’s stool,” I reply, already on my feet.

“Everything alright, mate?”

For professional hockey players, there are moments on the ice when you feel outside of your own body.

The rhythm of the game is instinct more than anything.

My muscle memory takes over, my senses sharpen, and I just flow with the energy of the game.

In those moments, I just know what will happen next.

I see it play out in my mind, like a case of déjà vu.

Weaving through this crowded bar, I feel it.

“Hey, Karlsson, where you going?” DeGraw calls after me. “Karlsson!”

I can’t stop now. My feet are taking me where I need to go.

And I know exactly what will happen next.