Page 2 of Two Guys One Puck (Gods Versus Monsters Hockey #2)

TWO

KTYTOR

I take a long drag of my cigarette, not sure Seaborn will actually come out.

But I’ll make his life hell if he doesn’t.

We’ll see them at the playoffs, and those ribs won’t be healed by then.

I’ll tell every forward in the fucking league about the injury.

They’ll all exploit it. I won’t have to lift a fucking finger.

He was cooler outside the arena, but I’m not. Winning the game didn’t diminish my anger one bit. I’ve never met a defender I wanted to fuck with more than Seaborn. His play style is smothering, and he’s an asshole on top of it.

We’d never get this opportunity on the ice, and I’ve spent the whole season dealing with his bullshit.

It’s time to have it out.

“You know anyone can see you standing there smoking.”

“And?” My gaze flicks over to the hotel exit where he’s standing, appraising.

“This isn’t your hotel. You don’t think anyone who sees you will question why the fuck you’re here?”

“Are you worried someone will think we are fucking, baby doll?” I drop my cigarette and toe it out with my standard military issue boot. Every guy my age owns a pair. Probably hand me downs, but the only shit that will last.

“No. But someone’s going to have questions about why you’re fraternizing with the enemy.”

“Very astute. Glad to hear you aren’t merely a meathead who got into university to play sports.”

“Fuck you,” Seaborn says through his teeth. His favorite insult. “People will think we are friendly.”

“Do you care what they think, sweetheart?”

“No.” The way he says it tells me he does. “I don’t need rumors saying we’re fucking or some shit.”

“Why are you thinking about fucking me?” I ask, giving him a wink.

“I never said—” He grunts in frustration, and I grin. I want him worked up. “Are we doing this or not?”

“What are you waiting for, beautiful? An invitation?”

“In the light with the fucking cameras?”

I glance up, forgetting the US is basically a police state, then gesture for him to walk around the side of the building. I half expect him to sucker punch me, but he’s too honorable, and waits for me to get set. I size him up, then pull off my shirt and toss it on a bush.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His hands curl into fists, and I feed off his anger. It’s been too long since I boxed; that kind of childhood play is frowned upon here.

“I like that shirt. I don’t want your blood to ruin it. You understand, yes?”

His upper lip curls in annoyance, and I shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do, but what can I say? My body is primed for a fight after a lifetime of it.

I curl a finger when he doesn’t make a move. “Come here, sunshine.”

He doesn’t move closer. Instead, he throws a punch, and I’m not ready for it. I don’t get my arm up in time, and he nails me in the jaw. Rage burns in my synapses as the dull pain gives me a rush of adrenaline.

Fucking lefties. They’re impossible to read.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting blood.

I smile with bloody teeth and return a quick jab that strikes him right in the nose.

His head cocks back, and he stumbles.I suddenly fear he will fucking fall back and hit his head.

That’s the last thing I need because I can’t explain why I’m at the other team’s hotel or why we are fighting out back.

This shit would get us both suspended by the Myth Hockey League.

He doesn’t fall, though. He catches himself, bringing his hand up to the cut along the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”That will teach him to keep his hands up. Fucking arrogant prick.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink before fighting.”

His eyes narrow. “I haven’t been… This is going to be impossible to explain.”

“Don’t worry. It makes you more attractive, sweet pea.” I make a kissy face at him, delighting in his anger.

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He puts his hands up, guarding his face.

We dance around each other for a few moments.

He’s light on his feet—something I didn’t expect at his size.

A few blows are traded, nothing that hits, while we feel each other out, but he quickly gets frustrated and moves in, throwing wild punches.

I block them and hit him in the kidney. He grunts, getting me in the chest.

“If you want to feel me up, you could have just asked,” I say as I back off again.

He charges me, shoving me back into the brick wall. Our fight quickly devolves into a brawl. Hit after hit after hit, and then out of nowhere, my lips are on his.

I’m not sure who started it, but I’m kissing him.

And he’s kissing me back.

What the fuck are we doing?

My body reacts to his before my brain has time to catch up. I’m already half-hard, and I’m not sure if it’s from the fighting or the kiss, but I’m not stopping it.

We’re roughly grasping at each other, still wrestling.

Seaborn uses his free hand to dig his fingers into my hip, trying to control the encounter.

I fight it, nipping at his tongue. He growls into my mouth, and I love how the sound radiates through both of us.

I’ve never kissed a man before. I’m not sure I even like men, I don’t think, but I like this.

He’s not delicate, giving back all the force I’m using.

I grab his throat, tongue delving deeper into his mouth.

He bites my lip and then fists a hand in my hair, pulling hard.

I expect him to shove off me, but he doesn’t, and our fight doesn’t end while we’re kissing.

My fingers tighten around his neck, and he digs his into my scalp.

It hurts as much as it stimulates, and I can’t stop.

He flattens his body against mine. I press my shoulder blades against the wall, using the leverage to force my hips out, to grind against him, and to my absolute pleasure, I find him rock fucking hard.

He pulls at my sweats, thumbs hooking under them to skim over my hip bone. My body ignites under the touch.

What is happening?

I’d never much cared for sex, or women for that matter, but that’s because I’d been focused on my goal of playing for the NHL.

Seaborn’s touch is something else. I could see myself getting as addicted to it as hockey.

I can’t do that.

I can’t get distracted.

My brother depends on me.

That sobers my mind. I shove at him, but he presses against me harder. I tighten my fingers on his throat and finally throw him off.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. A little of my blood is smeared on his lips, while the cut on the bridge of his nose left red smeared across his face. It must be on mine, too, and that makes me smile.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks like it was entirely me, even though he kissed me back and his cock is still hard. The fucking audacity.

“You tell me.” I drag my teeth over my lip, still tasting him there.

“Don’t fucking pretend like…” He trails off.

I flick my gaze over his body, the slight breeze making me more aware of my lack of shirt. “Pretend like what?” I say when he doesn’t finish.

“It was all me.” His voice is softer.

“I never said that,” I growl back.

Why do I want him to kiss me again? Almost as much as I want to hit him.

His chest heaves, and he must finally realize he’s in pain because he pinches the bridge of his nose and sucks in a breath.

Neither of us speaks.