Page 110 of Pucking Sweet

I just shake my head, trying to keep my rage in check. Cole did his best to clear the net, but that shot went straight past him and over Davidson’s shoulder.

The score is now 0-3. I swear to god, if this is a shutout, I’m gonna walk back to Jacksonville.

It’s not like I can be of any fucking help. I’m trapped in the penalty box for another four minutes. Stupid, bullshit charging penalty. The ref called it a major because the guy went down hard. Now, I’m just watching my teammates chase the puck up and down the ice, trying to compensate for the hole I left in our line. All the while, rowdy Pens fans slam the glass behind my head, shouting obscenities at me.

Cole skates past the penalty box, not giving me a second look. Seriously? Is he gonna be a sour grape about this? This isn’t my fault. We’ve all had bullshit charges called on us. He’s had more than his fair share too.

No, he’s still pissed about Poppy and me. It’s been a week since the beach, and I don’t even know if they’ve spoken yet. His principles arekeeping him warm at night while she stresses overthinking she has to pick one of us. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the shitty position of feeling like I’m losing two people I care about.

Maybe theonlytwo people I care about.

How the hell did I get here?

I sit in the box, elbows on knees, and watch the ref drop the puck. Sully wins control and passes back to Cole. He’s got great puck-handling as he works around two Pens, passing it up to Langley.

I’ve never really paused to consider what Cole’s friendship means to me. He’s been in and out of my life for a decade now, ever since we played together in the WHL. He’s one of the few guys who says he’ll keep in touch and then actually does. Joking on the ice whenever we play against each other, the occasional dinner, texts on my birthday. He’s the kind of guy who will watch your game on his day off and text you “good play” while you’re still out on the ice. More than once, I’ve returned to the dressing room to see a missed call from him.

Like I said: loyal fucking Leo.

And he hasn’t had it easy. I know all about his heart stuff. We’ve all seen the scars on his chest, but I was dumb enough to ask him. He told me about his surgeries as a kid, his long road to recovery.

I know about his road to the NHL too. He didn’t go first round in the draft like me, or even third round. No, he went fifth round and got sent down to the minors. He was a farm team guy for two years. He had to fight to prove himself worthy of a permanent seat on the bench.

The man is tough as nails.

And I’m trying to take away the one thing he wants.

It just so happens that the one thing Cole wants is the only thing I think I’veeverwanted outside of playing hockey.

Poppy.

Fuck, that girl is twisting me up like nothing else. I don’t even know when or how it happened. One minute, I was groaning with annoyance at the sound of her walking up behind me in those kitten heels. The next, I’m groaning into my fist in the shower every chance I get, spilling into my hand to the memory of her smile, her laugh.

It’s not just the sex. Though, please god, if you’re listening, letthere be more sex. I feel completely untethered. The need to touch her, hold her. It’s making me crazy. If Cole is feeling half of what I’m feeling, I know he’s suffering too.

Before Poppy, all I ever wanted from a woman was sex. Don’t even tell me your name. Just let me get lost in your body for a few stolen moments. Let me soothe the desperate ache of loneliness.

Blame my deep-seated neglect issues.

I never knew my dad, and my mom was a drug addict who left me on the front step of my grandpa’s house. Anton did the best he could at first, hiring nannies to feed me. He made sure I had uniforms for school and gave me a bed to sleep in. But the older I got, the more he took his foot off the gas pedal, letting me drive my own car.

By the time I was twelve years old, I was on my own, smoking cigarettes, fucking girls, and getting in fights behind the dumpsters at school. Old Anton took the belt to me one time too many over my constant suspensions, and I finally ran.

A truancy officer caught up with me after a couple weeks and sat me down. He had evidence of a string of petty crimes—shoplifting, vandalism, underage drinking. He gave me one last chance to reform my wild ways. He thought maybe a sport would help give me an outlet for all my anger and keep me on a tighter leash.

Enter hockey.

The first time I put on those skates and flew down the ice was pure freedom. I felt like a goldfish that had been suffocating on dry land, dropped back into a bowl of water. They put a stick in my hand, told me I could hit people, and I was hooked. A few years later, a lucky encounter with a scout landed me on my first Junior League team. The rest is history.

Now here I sit, a first-round NHL draft pick at the peak of my career. Hockey is the only thing I care about. It’s the only thing I’m good at. That and fucking girls. I gave up the smoking. Bad for the lungs.

Poppy and all the other PR reps like to think I’m this loose cannon. They think I’m out here playing with fire, just trying to get myself cut from the League, but nothing could be further from the truth. I know where the line is, and I’m careful not to cross it becausehockey is literally all I have. No family. No life outside the ice and my teammates. Not even a pet.

Hell, my new beach house is practically empty. All I need is a bed and a fridge. It’s not like I ever let anyone over or entertain. I don’t need them seeing how empty my life is.

For the longest time, I convinced myself I liked it this way. Nothing holds me back. A team can call with a trade offer, and I can have my whole life moved in a day. Trust me, it’s happened. More than once. I drink and I party, and I fuck a lot of girls because it keeps the feelings of emptiness at bay.

At least it did.