Page 2

Bennett Halliday

The cold hasn't quite left my muscles as we step off the ice and into the warmer air of the locker room as steam rises off our bodies. I tug at the hem of my practice jersey, peeling the damp fabric away from my skin.

"Alright, guys," I start, locking eyes with Jackson and Ethan, who are still riding the high of their jokes. "We've had our fun, but let's get real for a second."

They both nod, the shift in the atmosphere tangible. We all know what’s coming. The memory of last season's sting is etched in us like a bad tattoo.

"Last year…" My voice trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

"Left a damn bitter taste, man," Ethan finishes for me, his usual grin replaced by a tight-lipped frown.

"Exactly. We can't have a repeat of that," I assert. "We need to be dialed in this year. Every practice, every game — it counts."

"Agreed. Focus is key," Jackson adds, stripping off his tape and tossing it into the trash can. "No more screwing around."

"Damn right. We're better than that. Better than second place," I say.

"First place or bust," Ethan says, bumping my fist.

"Let's make sure the Ice Palace becomes the fortress no team wants to enter," I challenge them, invoking the name of our home arena like a sacred mantra.

"Kings don't settle for less," Jackson agrees as we share a look that doesn't need words.

"Let's bring that cup home this year." The image of us hoisting the trophy igniting a fire in my veins.

"For sure, man," they echo back as we break apart to go to our lockers and then hit the showers.

Just a few minutes later, I'm chuckling as I shove my gloves into my duffel bag when Jackson claps a hand on my shoulder.

"Man, the rink's freezin' today, huh?" he says. “Look, I got icicles on my hair. Oh, and speaking of cold, how's the love life, Benny Boy? You're the last Halliday on the market."

"Ha, like being 'on the market' is a bad thing." I roll my eyes. The Halliday brothers – we're practically a professional athlete dynasty, but while my siblings have all settled down with their partners, here I am, still playing the field.

Mom's even starting to drop those 'When will I have grandkids from you?' bombs. But commitment? That's one puck I'm not ready to catch just yet.

"Bro, your family gatherings must feel like speed dating events now, with everyone trying to set you up," Ethan chimes in.

"Shit, it’s more like an intervention, since you know that my mom is part owner of Holidates App and matchmaking is her job," I snort. "But let's drop it, okay? Tonight's about beers and chilling, not my nonexistent love life."

"Fair enough," Jackson concedes. "Let's hit The Rinkside Tavern then."

We spill out into the Miami night make the short walk to Rinkside. It's our usual spot, where the beer flows as freely as the banter.

"First round's on me," I announce as we claim a booth, the worn leather creaking under our weight. Jackson and Ethan make themselves comfortable.

"Make mine a double," Ethan hollers and winks at a group of women by the bar. Jackson's already talking strategy for our next game, gesturing with hands that seem too large for his pint glass.

"Sure thing." I head toward the bar, my mind going to a place where I can take the pressure off.

Tonight, I'll let myself relax because tomorrow, we train, and the cycle starts again.

A few beers down, and the guys are getting annoying. So, I scan the crowd to people watch, when she catches my eye. She's leaning against the bar, a red dress clinging to her curves like it's got a mind of its own, and a cascade of dark curls that beg for fingers to get lost in them.

"Ben, you in or out on this?" Ethan's voice cuts through my thoughts, but I barely register his words.

"Out," I say without looking at him, my gaze fixed on the woman. There's something about her, an energy that’s pulling me in.

"Man's got a target locked," Jackson chuckles, following my line of sight. "Give 'em hell, Halliday."

"Watch and learn, boys," I throw back over my shoulder as I break from our booth and stride toward the bar with purpose.

"Can I buy you a drink?" I ask her, sliding into the empty space beside her. She turns to me, those dark eyes surveying me with a hint of amusement.

"Only if you're having one with me," she counters.

"Two Macallan 18s," I tell the bartender. It's bold and extravagant, but so is she. “I’m not here to just play.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed or intrigued, I can't tell. When her hand brushes mine as we take our drinks, that confirms she’s good to roll with my dirty thoughts of how this night can end up.

"Cheers." Her lips promise things that have my body heating up.

"Cheers, drink up, and let’s get out of here," I instruct.

With a silent nod, she does just that, and we are soon stepping outside the Rinkside Tavern with her hand tucked into the crook of my arm.

"Your chariot awaits." I gesture toward the idling black sedan across the street.

"Such a gentleman," she teases with that same sultry look she gave me from the bar.

I help her into the backseat of the Uber and shut the door before the driver can ask where I'm sitting, leaning down to the open window instead.

"Make sure she gets home safe," I tell him, slipping a couple of extra bills through the gap. Confusion flickers across his face, mirrored in hers as she peers out at me.

"Aren't you coming?" she asks.

"Rain check," I say with a smile and a wink. "Goodnight."

I back away from the car, hands in pockets, watching as it merges with the traffic and disappears into the night.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath, pulling out my phone for another Uber. It arrives quicker than the last, a nondescript car that doesn't smell like jasmine or hold the gaze of a woman who may or may not have been more than just a one-night stand.

"Good evening, Sir?" the new driver asks as I buckle in, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

"Good evening," I reply, my voice flat as I silently wait to arrive at my townhouse and the calm of the suburbs.

"Here we are," the driver announces, pulling up to the curb outside my place. I thank him, stepping out into the quiet, and watch as he drives off, taking with him the last threads of what might have been a typical end to an evening.

Alone now, truly alone, I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and head inside.

I flip on the lights, the door closes behind me with a click, and I toss my keys onto the side table and make a beeline for the living room.

I sink into the couch as the springs give their creak of protest. With a sigh, I grab the remote and aim it at the mammoth TV.

A flick of my thumb, and the 135-inch screen blazes to life. The home screen stares back at me, a grid of options. Still, I swipe through the selections, the sound of each click punctuating the stillness.

I scan through the channel apps until my finger hovers. Then, with a click of the remote, the TV allows me the opportunity to dive into the depths of late-night channels that promise a different kind of action than what I get on the ice.

It’s a channel that doesn't require much in the way of emotional investment. It's all flesh and fantasy, and right now, that's about all I can handle. I scroll past the categories and titles until one catches my eye.

Classic.

I almost laugh, but there's no humor in it, just a hollow recognition. On the screen, a woman with bright red lips is commanding attention, her mouth working magic on some anonymous guy lucky enough to be on that couch. He's just sitting there, lost in the moment, and who can blame him?

I shift on the couch and release my hard cock from my jeans, my fingers wrapping around the throbbing need between my legs. The TV flickers across my skin as I watch those bright red lips swallow the man’s shaft and bob up again, over and over. The raspy breaths escaping my lips sync with the low, carnal moans coming from the speakers.

I grunt under my breath, the friction building heat that spirals through me. It's a raw, unadulterated sensation.

The woman on the screen is relentless. I can almost feel the slick warmth of her mouth, imagining it's me on that couch.

My grip tightens, movements quickening, chasing that high that I know is just within reach.

"Shit," I gasp as the pressure mounts, a familiar tension winding up inside me. The sound of my heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else. I'm close, so damn close.

It hits, making my body tense up. Pleasure crashes over me, a wave of release that leaves me gasping, my body jerking slightly with each pulse. For a few seconds, there's nothing else in the world—not the ice, not the pressures, not the empty townhouse—just the blinding white of orgasm obliterating every thought.

When it fades, I'm left panting, a sheen of sweat cooling on my skin. The screen before me blurs into insignificance, and I swipe at my forehead, chuckling at the absurdity of finding solace in the arms of solitude.