Page 5 of Slew Foot (Scoring Chances #3)

Which wasn’t how Americans rated their beef, but Rafael— Rafe, apparently —was Canadian and Mickey was German, and this was all in his head anyway, so what did it matter?

There was no question Rafe was premium quality though, from the top of his dark wavy hair to the bottom of his giant feet. He was tall and thick and had these brooding sort of good looks that made Mickey think about things he generally didn’t think about in locker rooms.

Not that anyone here would care.

Jesse had whistled at the sight of Rafe walking through the doors—earning him a dirty look from his boyfriend, Connor—because no one on the Harriers was too fussy about anyone’s sexuality, especially with Bobby Tucker gone.

Mickey wouldn’t miss him.

But Rafe, with his broad shoulders and square jaw and gold earring glinting in his ear, was a welcome addition to the team.

Especially because Mickey knew Gavin had acquired Rafe for him .

Not … personally, of course. But out on the ice. Because Mickey had been playing horribly all season.

It was frustrating, but unlike some guys, he refused to get all up in his head about the slump. It was what it was, and he’d keep trying until something clicked.

All things, both bad and good, came to an end eventually.

Mickey watched out of the corner of his eye as Rafe stripped down and put on workout gear, sneaking a quick peek at his flat abs and thick thighs. Nice .

“Did you eat?” he asked.

Rafe nodded. “I had something on the plane. It was business class, so it was decent.”

“Yeah, you probably don’t fit in economy, do you?” Mickey said, looking him up and down.

Huffing his amusement, Rafe tugged on a T-shirt. Brand-new, with the Harriers’ logo on the front. The equipment manager must have left it in his stall for him. They had a great crew here.

The soft cotton stretched over Rafe’s thick shoulders nicely and Mickey stifled a little sigh. Well, their GM couldn’t have done a better job finding a D-partner just his type if he’d tried.

On the ice though? Well, that remained to be seen.

The problem was, no matter how many guys they tried, they couldn’t seem to find the right fit for Mickey.

He wasn’t trying to be difficult. He showed up early, he worked hard, and he went into every game trying to do his best. But he’d play with a guy for a while and every flicker of chemistry they managed to scrape together in practice, would sort of … peter out during the game.

Mickey was a left-handed shot and, generally speaking, played left defense. They’d rotated through the big guns on the right—he’d been a disaster with Luke Crawford—and even tried bringing up guys from Concord, where their AHL team was located, to pair with him.

None of them worked.

In a fit of desperation when Crawford was out with his latest suspension, they’d even tried having him play his off side and slotted him into the right defense position. No dice.

Lately, their head coach, Hoyt Kent, had started looking increasingly desperate with every meeting they had.

And now they’d brought in Rafe. Mickey was praying they’d have a bright spark of instant chemistry tonight, something to show if they were likely to work well together or not.

Mickey wondered what they’d do if that didn’t work out.

Probably trade me , he thought with a rueful sigh. Because his entry-level cap hit was going to waste.

And now they’d taken on Rafe, who had a four-point-three-million-dollar contract. Ugh, no pressure for this to go well, right?

He glanced over at Rafe to see him standing, looming over Mickey.

An image flickered through Mickey’s mind of getting on his knees for Rafe, squeezing those thick thighs, and taking his—probably equally thick—cock into his mouth.

Mickey pictured sucking Rafe until his body trembled and he had to brace himself, his big hand gentle as it cupped the back of Mickey’s head. Mickey would use every skill he had to make Rafe beg and plead and?—

“Mickey? Could you show me to the gym?” Rafe asked, staring down at him with a worried little frown. “I need to get in a super quick dryland workout before we go out for warmups.”

“Oh, yes.” Mickey stood, forcing the fantasy from his mind. “This way.”

They had hockey to play together. As appealing as Rafe was, Mickey’s focus needed to be on the game.

Although he’d never admit it aloud, maybe Tanner was right.

Maybe he should find someone to hook up with. Perhaps if he channeled his attraction to Rafe into something more productive, he’d get it out of his system so he could focus on what was important.

As they waited in the tunnel before the first period, Mickey wondered how it would go tonight. Although he and Rafe had batted a few pucks back and forth during warmups, Mickey wouldn’t have an opportunity to see what he was like on the ice until their first shift out together.

After Mickey had learned about the trade, he’d watched some game tape of Rafe, trying to get a feel for what he was like on the ice.

He was a penalty killer. A shutdown defenseman who ate pucks for a living.

Not literally, or at least not that Mickey had seen. As far as Mickey knew, he still had all of his original teeth, which was quite impressive for a D-man his age. Mickey’d had a chip in one of his front teeth since he was seventeen.

But either way, Rafe was known for blocking shots and putting his body on the line.

That big, big body …

Ugh. This is getting inconvenient , Mickey thought wryly as he followed Rafe out of the tunnel and onto the bench for the first period.

Distraction was rarely his problem, but he could definitely see it becoming a concern if he wasn’t careful.

Unacceptable.

So, he resolutely put all thoughts of Rafe’s body—as it related to non-hockey things, anyway—out of his head and prepared himself for the game.

It turned out, Rafe was exactly what had been promised.

In the first period, he blocked shots, shut down odd man rushes, and flattened guys against the boards like it was his sole mission in life.

He was good .

The problem was, they needed him to be good with Mickey. And so far, they definitely weren’t gelling. After the umpteenth pass in the second period that didn’t connect, Mickey swore under his breath as he watched a replay of the latest disaster on the Jumbotron.

“Sorry,” Rafe said. “I’ll do better.”

Mickey glanced over to see sweat trickling down his face. Objectively, it was a good look. His hair was flattened under his helmet in damp little curls and his chest heaved from the exertion of their last shift.

But there were also dark smudges under his eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders and Mickey didn’t want him beating himself up when he was exhausted and under-prepared for his first game in Boston.

“Hey, no, don’t blame yourself. We haven’t even had a practice together yet,” Mickey said with a small laugh. “Give it time.”

Rafe gave him a soft, fleeting smile, and Mickey resolutely turned to look at the Jumbotron.

No distractions.

The next shift out, the faceoff was in the offensive zone and Graham won the puck cleanly and fired it to Mickey.

He passed it back to Anker Henriksen, Graham’s winger, and for a few moments, they played keep-away. When Anker passed it to Graham, he fired the puck but it sailed over the top of the net, hitting the glass and bouncing to the ice below.

Rafe wheeled around the net, collecting the puck and shooting it to Graham. He fired it toward the goal, where it pinged off the post, but this time, was collected by their opponents.

The play swept around the net again and Rafe was left in an awkward position, scrambling to catch up. One of the New Jersey players fired the puck into the Harriers’ defensive zone, but it zipped past the goal line and the puck was off-sides.

They made a line change then and Mickey followed Rafe’s slumped shoulders to the bench.

“Well, that was terrible,” he muttered under his breath when they were seated side-by-side.

Mickey knocked their shoulders together. “It’ll get better.”

“What?” Rafe leaned in, ducking his head like he was having a tough time hearing him from so far away.

“I said it’ll get better. You’re coming off a rough flight and not enough sleep. No one expects you to be at your best tonight.”

“I do.”

Mickey gave him a rueful smile because he understood. He was harder on himself than anyone.

Although maybe not the fans. Because they were not impressed with him this season.

The rest of the period passed pretty uneventfully, and the team won in regulation, which was a nice change of pace. They’d been losing a lot lately.

Mickey hadn’t played badly tonight, but he hadn’t wowed anyone either.

It was … fine.

Even if a tiny part of Mickey had been hoping for instant chemistry with Rafe on the ice, that was probably unrealistic, right?