Page 111 of Pucking Sweet

Now there’s Poppy. I haven’t touched another woman since the day she sat me down in her office and set out her plan for my stupid sex contracts. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of chances. Bunnies can be persistent on the road, and I have a reputation. But I’ve gone home alone every night. I don’t want bunnies anymore. I don’t want the endless disconnect.

Goddamn it, I want Poppy.

But to have her will mean I hurt Cole, one of the only other people on this earth who has ever given a damn about me.

God, this fucking sucks.

The Pens goalie starts slapping the ice with his stick, warning his guys that my penalty is ending. That hollowthwackfills my senses. I buckle my helmet and climb on the edge of the boards, ready to leap over. The Pens are all over us in our defensive zone. Compton is out there doing his best to guard Dave-O while the forward line fights to get the puck clear.

“Come on,” I growl. “Get it out!”

A Pens forward knocks Langley down to the ice, and I see the opening Compton can’t cover.

“Fuck—no,” I bellow.

Too fucking late. Quick as a bullet, the puck slips right between Davidson’s toe and the post, hitting the back of the net. The cherry goes off, and the Pens go wild.

I just cost my team two fucking goals.

My penalty ends, and I leap over the boards. Speeding across theice, I join the Rays just as Compton is replaced with Cole. “Hey, tough game,” I say at him.

He glances my way, the arena lights reflecting off his visor. “Just get over on your side, Novikov. Let’s fucking finish this.”

I glare as I coast backward.

Oh, we are just getting started.

37

It’s after midnight, and I’m stretched out shirtless on my hotel bed, icing my knees. SportsCenter is playing on the TV, recapping the highlights of all tonight’s various games. That’s the good thing about sports: every sport, every day, someone wins, and someone loses.

Well, the Rays lost big-time tonight. Honestly, it was embarrassing. Thank god for Sully and that last-minute goal, or it would’ve been a shutout. After the game, Coach informed us that Mars will be out of the net for the next two games, at least. They’re getting him checked out for a possible groin pull.

I groan, shifting the pack of ice from my left knee over to my right. Groin pulls are no joke. A third-degree pull derailed the start of my NHL career. I lost over half a season of ice time as I rehabbed it.

Knock. Knock.

Someone’s at my door after midnight? I roll to my side, reaching for my phone. If it’s a Ray, they usually text ahead. I don’t have any missed texts or calls.

“Come on, bud. Open the door,” Novy calls.

Fuck. I don’t want to deal with him right now. “I’m asleep,” I bark.

“No, you’re not,” he calls through the door. “You’re watching SportsCenter recaps and icing your damn knees.”

I glance from the ice pack on my knee to the TV. We always roomed together in the Juniors, so the fucker knows all my routines.

“Come on, Cole. Just let me in. I gotta piss.”

Muttering a curse, I toss my ice pack on the bedside table and swing my legs off the bed. I cross over to the door and throw the bolt, pulling the door open. “What?”

He’s leaning against the door wearing a pair of checkered pajama pants and an unzipped Rays hoodie. It’s on inside out. The assholeisn’t wearing any shoes. “For a minute there, I contemplated knocking onthatdoor instead,” he says, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. “Sounds like they’re having way more fun.”

I follow the line of his point. It only takes a second to catch on. The walls between the rooms must be thick because I haven’t heard a peep out of my neighbors all night. The doors, not so much. “Oh shit,” I mutter. “Jeez, it sounds like a porn set over there.”

“Yup. Whose room is that?”

“Jake’s,” I reply.