Page 45 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

“ I fucking love hockey,” I tell my best friend as I pull her close.

We’re on our feet like the rest of the crowd, watching the final minute of play.

We’re up by one but Woodcock didn’t come to lose, and they’re crowding the net.

We all collectively hold our breath when their lead scorer shoots a near-perfect shot.

Time slows down as we all watch JT sink into a split to knock the puck away with the tip of his skate.

We scream like maniacs as Will snags the puck and heads down the ice, passing it back and forth to Mickey with dizzying speed.

Those two know exactly what they’re doing.

It’s a mindfuck as much as it is an actual game strategy, and it’s effective as hell.

The Bushtit players crowd Mickey in a swarm of purple and green jerseys, but it doesn’t matter.

Will takes the puck to the net and shoots it in like he’s walking to the mailbox for a package.

Those assholes never even see it coming.

“They won!” Holland screams, jumping up and down, and that’s when I realize I am, too. But I don’t care. Our boyfriends are headed to the next round. That’s something to celebrate.

And yes, I’m calling Pete my boyfriend. We didn’t put a label on it this morning, but I have no doubt that he sees me as his girlfriend. It’s what we’ve been for over a month now, even if we weren’t willing to admit it.

Suddenly, Holland stops cheering. She grabs my hand and drags me along as she follows Mel.

“Where are we going?” I ask, looking back to see Josie, Annabelle, and Maggie. They’re walking at a slower pace, but we’re all heading in the same direction.

“There’s a celebration in the locker room,” I hear someone say. “And the crowds will be crazy, so we’re heading there now.”

Maybe it’s the reporter in me, but I love this frenzied energy. I feel like a million stories are buzzing around me, but the only one I want to pay attention to tonight is Bainbridge’s victory.

There are reporters here, including Andy from school. In a rare display of humanity, he agreed that I should just be a spectator for this game so that I could watch my boyfriend play instead of tracking every movement and gathering sound bites and interviews.

We make it to a hall with two large gray doors on either side. Mel strides purposefully to the left and presents her badge to the security guard. He gives a nod and lets each of us in as he checks our credentials. I’m not surprised. I bet it’s about to get crazy in here.

“Has anyone seen Sophie?” Josie asks.

I look around to see everyone shaking their heads.

“She went to the bathroom a while ago and then I got so wrapped up in the game that I’m not sure if she came back or not.” Josie seems worried because she’s the kindest person ever, but Mel shrugs .

“She’ll find us, I’m sure. You can shoot her a text to let her know we’re in the locker room.”

Josie nods, and for a second, I wonder what we’re all going to do while we wait. But then the large gray door opens, and the team starts pouring in. It’s total chaos and though I’ll never describe myself as a people person, the energy in this room is contagious, and I find myself swept up in it.

Kind of like the way I’m swept up in Pete’s arms when he weaves through the crowd to find me.

My feet are off the ground and I’m squealing.

If someone had told me back in January that I’d be here now, I’d never have believed them, but I don’t want to be anywhere else.

And I don’t want to be with anyone else.

As impossible as it seems, Pete Santos is my perfect fit.

He’s the sunshine to my grump, the smile to my scowl, the belly laugh to my eye roll.

“This is our fucking year,” he yells, spinning me around. I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to the team or to anyone within a hundred-mile radius, but I don’t think he’s wrong. All of this feels very right.

Pete sets me back on the ground before tipping his head back and howling like a wolf. Last fall, I’d have called that proof positive that athletes are just well-dressed, semi-organized animals. But now that I’m part of the zoo, I don’t mind so much.

“You were amazing,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around him.

He’s sweaty and tired and he looks so damn handsome—and so damn happy—that I need a taste of his lips.

He must need me too, because he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me in close while his mouth covers mine.

Everything fades as I turn all my attention on Pete.

Watching him play hockey is a kind of foreplay for me.

I never would have guessed, but seeing him get all worked up, watching him dominate, and witnessing the way he takes control when he’s on the ice are all major turn-ons for me.

Just thinking about it now sends a shiver through my body.

Oh.

It’s possible that the giant tub of ice water that’s just been poured on top of us is also what’s making me shiver.

Holy. Freaking. Hell.

I wipe the water out of my eyes and catch a glimpse of Dean and Ollie darting away.

“Fuck,” Pete curses, a smile still on his face.

“Are you cold now?” I tease him. He likes to act like growing up in Syracuse made him immune to the cold and that those of us who wear coats are just wimps who can’t hack it, but right now, his lips look a little purple.

“Cold?” he asks, shaking off the excess water like a dog. “Nah, I’m refreshed.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, my teeth chattering. There wasn’t a lot of water left in the container, but it was cold, and I think most of the icy droplets landed on me.

“Oh shit. I’m gonna kill those assholes,” he says, his eyes darting around the room. “You need another shirt.”

“I’ll be okay,” I assure him, although he’s probably right. The jerseys Mel found online are more like glorified t-shirts and mine is soaked through.

“Santos!” Will’s voice booms from across the room as he calls my boyfriend over. “My mom wants pictures.”

I turn to head in that direction because even though I’m not here as Howler staff, I’d like to get some pictures, too, but Pete stops me with his hand on my shoulders.

“Like hell you’re going anywhere near a camera right now,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

It’s kinda hot…

But also, what the hell? “Um, I’m sorry, did I miss the part where you’re in charge of where the fuck I go and what the fuck I do now that we’re officially official?”

Pete tips his head down and captures my mouth again.

If he’s trying to distract me, it’s working.

“Your shirt’s completely see-through. And while I fucking love that white cotton bra you’re wearing, I don’t really want Will’s mother to post pics of your barely covered tits all over the internet.

And she’s crafty. You and your wet t-shirt could be on a t-shirt by the end of the weekend. ”

I take a step back and look down. Pete’s right. My white shirt is like wet tissue paper clinging to my skin. And damn, I’m still cold.

“You can call me a possessive asshole all you want,” he says. “You’re not wrong. But this hot fucking body is mine, and I don’t want to share it.”

Well, that’s interesting. Everybody’s favorite teddy bear has a possessive streak. Honestly, with the way his eyes are eating me up, I don’t even mind.

“There’s got to be a box of t-shirts around here somewhere. I heard Liza say we should all grab some. Let me see if I can find her,” he says, looking around for the one of the equipment managers.

“I’ll find her,” I say, crossing my arms because I’m not really in the mood to flash my tits in a room with this many cameras. “Go take pics before Will’s mom loses her mind.”

Pete grumbles something, but when Will calls again, he heads in that direction while I duck out one of the interior doors. It leads to a small hallway and I’m betting there’s a stash of merch around here somewhere.

I hear loud voices around the corner, and then the sound of a door slamming shut. Without thinking, I flatten myself to the wall. I love my tits, but I get to pick and choose who sees them, and the hotheaded randos in the hallway don’t make the cut .

“It’s fucking bullshit,” the one whines.

“Yeah, but what do you expect? We do all the fucking work, and he gets to call all the shots.”

Their voices trail down the hall and when I peek around the corner, I watch them walk out of sight.

I stay still until they’re gone. Judging by their conversations and their builds, I’m guessing they’re pissed off Bushtits.

It sounds like their coach is making calls they disagree with.

I should probably feel a little bit bad, but this is the team of the guy who tore up Van’s knee. They get no sympathy from me.

I walk down the hall they just vacated and try the door handles. Most are locked, but one is open. I push on it, praying there’s something in here I can wear.

There’s a shirt all right.

But’s not a championship one. It’s a jersey I recognize. It’s nearly identical to the one I’m wearing, except for the size and the name on the back. “Sophie?” I call but get no answer, which makes sense. The room is small and mostly bare.

I look down at her shirt. I really don’t want to put it on and not just because it’s about four sizes too small.

Maybe I can just hold it in front of myself until my own jersey dries out a little.

I scoop it up off the floor, because at the very least, I should return it to her, although I have no clue how it ended up in this room.

There’s not much else in here—a few chairs and a long table.

I’m guessing it’s used for press conferences or meetings, but when I see Sophie’s sexy and very expensive lingerie on the floor, I realize this must be a multi-purpose room.