Page 31 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

When Rafe hit the ice for warmups, he was surprised to get a small cheer from the crowd.

It wasn’t big or anything, just a handful of people making some noise for him. He almost chalked it up to being some sort of weird coincidence actually, but then Mickey elbowed him, grinning as he skated up beside Rafe.

“That’s gotta feel good, right?” he asked.

Rafe smiled down at him. “Yeah. It does.”

The hug from Mickey and his little pep talk earlier had helped Rafe pull it together enough to make it out on the ice for warmups and he was feeling good until he turned and caught a glimpse of Walker stretched across the broad shoulders of a player.

The sight made Rafe feel like someone had driven their elbow into the dead center of his chest.

“That’s him, huh?” Mickey asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah,” Rafe whispered, so soft he was surprised Mickey heard him at all. “Why, are you jealous?”

He meant it as a joke, trying to channel some of Tanner’s unending confidence or something, but Mickey set his jaw. “No. He’s an idiot. If you were mine, I would never let you go.”

And oh, Rafe was all breathless and rubbing at his chest again because that was a lot .

Mickey’s eyes widened like he’d realized what he’d said, and he opened his mouth.

Rafe spoke before he could take it back or something. “If I was yours, I wouldn’t want you to,” he said and then he skated away because holy shit, did I really say that?

Also, because he had routines and shit.

Rafe went through those on autopilot, with half his brain thinking about what Mickey said, the other half watching out for where Logan was so he could conveniently be nowhere near there.

He caught a glimpse of hurt on Logan’s face a couple of times and thought, good , but then immediately felt guilty about it. Logan didn’t deserve that.

Probably.

Rafe did catch the eye of a couple of other guys who came up to the red line and said hi, thwacking his shin pad or stick in greeting and saying it was good to see him.

Rafe shot the shit with them for a few minutes, nodding when they said it seemed like he’d found his place in Boston.

“Yeah,” he said with a smile, “I think I have.”

And then Mickey was there, crowding close, clearly checking in on him to be sure he was okay.

And Rafe felt this dizzy sort of gratitude for Mickey and how wonderful he was.

When they left the ice a few minutes later, Rafe felt a little more centered. He sat in his stall, laughing at Tanner and the flurry of chirping their opponents and helping get people fired up that he’d started doing.

“And we’re gonna go out there and make those dudes feel like idiots for ever letting go of Rafe!” he hollered at the end.

And Rafe laughed, grinning at Mickey because Mickey had been right.

This was his team .

Minnesota scored on them less than a minute into the game.

It was a flukey bounce off the goalpost, with little that either Mickey or even Jesse could have done about it.

But Mickey was pissed, because the goal had come from Logan Walker. Of course it had.

Mickey cursed and Walker smiled at him, looking altogether too pleased with himself.

A ref side-eyed them, like he was afraid they were going to break out in fisticuffs, so Mickey switched to cursing in German.

Then he wouldn’t know Mickey had told Logan Walker, “Leck mich am Arsch!” or, basically, to lick his ass.

Rafe bumped against Mickey, knocking their shoulders together and smiling down at him for no apparent reason. And oh, wasn’t that smile absolutely devastating? So was the little curl escaping Rafe’s helmet and how big he seemed, looming over Mickey right now.

Mickey could hardly breathe.

“Looking good, Moon Pie!” Logan Walker called out as he skated away, breaking them from their little moment.

Mickey let out a snarl and half-turned like he was going to go after him, and it didn’t hit him how ridiculous he was acting until Rafe was right there, bumping into him again and herding him toward the Harriers bench. Not allowing him to go after Walker.

“I thought you were going to have to be the one holding me back,” Rafe teased. “And here you are looking like you want to go after him.”

“ Moon Pie ,” Mickey muttered disparagingly under his breath.

“You know, I always hated that nickname.” Rafe made a face as Kady swung the bench door open for them. Rafe stepped up, sliding down the bench and looking up at Mickey.

Someone bumped him from behind. “Get off the fuckin’ ice, Krause,” Connor grumbled.

Mickey stumbled forward, sliding onto the bench beside Rafe as his captain squished in beside him.

“You okay, Mouse?” Connor asked with a frown, bumping the back of his knuckles against Mickey’s thigh.

Mickey looked at him in surprise. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Connor gave him a skeptical look. “Just checking.”

On the ice, they were setting up for a new faceoff and Mickey watched, startled when Coach Rasmussen bent down, grasping his shoulders and flooding his nose with the scent of the mint gum he constantly chewed.

“You better be fine, Krause. You’re usually one of the most level-headed players I’ve got. I’m aware you and Rafe are … close though. I get it but don’t let his ex-boyfriend get in your head.”

“I wouldn’t!” Mickey promised, although privately he wasn’t sure if that was actually true. Also, he was a little horrified that even his coach had noticed his feelings for Rafe. Or was it his guilty conscience talking?

Had Rasmussen merely meant their friendship?

“Good.” Rasmussen squeezed his shoulders once, then patted his upper arm. “Good man.”

Mickey let out a sigh and did his best to focus on the game ahead. He really, really didn’t want to prove his captain or his coach right.

Or was that wrong?

Whichever it was, there was no point in dwelling on it, not when there was hockey to play, so Mickey chewed on his mouthguard and focused on the game.

After the first period ended with Boston scoreless to Minnesota’s single goal, Rafe clomped off the ice and over to grab a headset to talk to Jocelyn Yang. She was the rinkside reporter and did the intermission interviews. She was nice and everything. He just hated doing them.

Unfortunately, he was tonight’s target. And there was no wiggling out of it. He’d already tried. Tyson had given him an unimpressed look and said, “You’re doing it,” and when the head of PR told you to jump, you had to jump.

The headset crackled to life and he heard Jocelyn’s voice coming to him from Boston. “Rafe, how do you feel about playing against your former team?”

Rafe shrugged and said, “I’ve just gotta go out there and keep playing hockey. Focus on helping guys get pucks to the net and blocking shots. No different than any other team we play against.”

“But do you find it challenging to go up against people you were once close to?”

“I know guys on other teams,” he pointed out. “Across the league. I’ve played with them too.”

And yeah, he could be slow to catch onto stuff sometimes, but it was pretty obvious what she was getting at. She wanted him to talk about how hard it was to play against his ex and have some like … emotional moment or something.

She was nicer about it than the local sports guy, Les, who’d tried to ask him a bunch of shitty questions when he’d arrived. But Rafe wanted to focus on the stupid game and not think about all the rest of this bullshit.

Thankfully, Jocelyn finally felt sorry for him or something, because she switched to a more normal question. “What do you think the team is going to need to do differently in the next period?”

Rafe rattled off his usual answers, answered a few more questions, and nodded when she said thank you and finally let him go.

He escaped to the locker room, handing his gloves to Rusty, the equipment manager, to dry out before the next period. He hated putting sweaty gloves back on. Although he wasn’t as fussy as some guys, who wore a different pair for every period.

Rafe clomped over to his stall, tossing his helmet into his stall with a little more force than necessary.

Mickey shot him a look, clearly asking, “you okay?” and Rafe nodded, reaching for a water bottle.

Mickey smiled and bumped their shoulders together.

He’d stripped off his jersey and some of his pads. He never wore a compression layer on the top, claiming he got too hot, and the skin on his chest and upper back was a blotchy pink-red color as he turned and reached for a power bar.

Rafe let himself look for a moment as Mickey tore the snack open and stuffed it in his mouth, noticing the flex of his shoulders and the freckles across them. Rafe suddenly wanted to lean in, press his lips to them, and taste the salt of Mickey’s skin.

Rafe fumbled his bottle and nearly dropped it.

“You sure you’re okay?” Mickey asked, his voice muffled by the food.

His eyes were bright with laughter and his hair stuck up funny from the quick towel dry he’d probably done earlier, and Rafe stared at him, open mouthed, because he didn’t know what else to say or do.

It had hurt seeing Logan earlier, but not for the reasons Rafe had expected it to.

He didn’t miss Logan or want him back or anything. At most, he was hurt and kinda pissed he’d never even gotten a decent apology for the way stuff had ended between them and that he’d had to find out about Logan’s new girlfriend the way he had.

He’d thought it would be hard, being back here in Minnesota and it was, a little bit, but not for the reasons he’d thought.

He was so over Logan Walker.

The problem was, he was pretty sure he was in love with Mickey Krause.

Fuuuck .