Page 147 of The Wildest One

I nuzzled my lips against her cheek. “You know what you’re also going to love?”

“What?”

I rubbed my thumb over her mouth, dragging it across her bottom lip since that was my favorite. “When I eat your pussy in the shower of our locker room.”

EPILOGUE

Beck

The Stanley Cup Playoffs

Game seven. We were tied with Tampa, the series three to three. The winner of tonight’s game would take home the Cup.

And there were twenty-three fucking seconds left on the clock.

My right wing and I were on each side of Tampa’s net, my center at the point.

Positioned.

Ready.

And we were passing the puck between us, looking for an in. Only a couple of inches would be enough, but their goalie was good, and so were their defensemen.

This was going to be hard—we knew that.

I didn’t want the game to go into overtime. We were tired. The level of play was so much more intense during the finals,and each period, although only twenty minutes long, had felt like they were double that.

But with the score two to two, we either had to make this goal, or overtime was happening.

I could hear Coach yelling from the bench. Words that triggered schematics and certain plays—things we had learned during practice when we studied Tampa’s lines and their style of attack.

Except it didn’t matter how much time I’d spent in the league, or how many shots on goal I’d taken throughout the years, or what we had covered during practice and watching film; nothing could have prepared me for a situation like this.

This was part luck, part skill, and part timing.

The puck went to my center, his arm rising, his skates pointed toward the ice to ground him, but he didn’t shoot toward the goal; he passed it to me instead.

Ten seconds.

I didn’t look up at the clock. The crowd gave me the countdown.

Time was the only thing I heard from them. Everything else—their chanting, screaming, cheering—never came close to hitting my ears.

If I shot and it was deflected or caught by the goalie, we’d lose our chance. I couldn’t take that risk. The only way the puck could get in that goal was if there was a clear opening.

And I didn’t have one.

Fuck me.

I skated toward the left, hoping the new angle would create one.

Eight seconds.

Seven.

I returned the puck to my center, who immediately directed it to my right wing. The slightest nod of his head told me hisplan. He was going to fake a pass to the center, which meant it would come to me; the goalie would be too focused on the middle, and I could hook it into the corner of the net.

I just couldn’t miss.