Brayden #2
I’d seen Keeley sitting nearby, too, holding her little one and cheering for us.
Whose jersey was she wearing? I wanted her in my number—sixty-nine.
Y’all, I wanted Hannah in it too. But for the moment, I had to be satisfied with having seen a wave from Keeley and Hannah clapping and bouncing on her mom’s legs, excited by all the color and movement in the barn.
Vancouver’s center got the jump on Gauthier in the face-off.
We wanted our shutout. There was no way we were letting them score on us—not when their game had already collapsed.
They skated fast, dekeing and throwing our defense off as they moved into scoring range. Minns and Mironov were flying, ice cutting in wide arcs and sticks swinging as they fought to protect Rune.
I cut across the ice, trying to intercept the Grizzlies’ pass, but I was a fraction of a second too late.
The Grizzlies tic-tac-toed with short, sharp wristers and saucer passes, playing keep-away from us. It was as if Vancouver’s asses had been lit on fire, our last goal motivating them to score and avoid the very thing we wanted.
Then it happened.
Out of nowhere.
Number eight passed the puck.
There was a clear shot on goal. Their forward took it.
I held my breath as I watched Rune shoot his arm out and catch the puck like it was moving at a snail’s pace, not a bullet.
He was on fire. This was his night.
“Hell yeah,” I hollered and dug hard into the tight turn behind goal. I shot out the other side, ready to take his pass.
Number eight hurtled forward, his stick held across his body in both hands.
I turned on a dime and skated to him. But I was skating through molasses. My feet wouldn’t move fast enough. My arms didn’t pump harder.
Horror flittered through me as number eight lifted his stick and collided with Rune. It was a blatant cross-check.
Rune’s head snapped back, his cage taking most of the force from the blunt impact.
But number eight kept charging, his momentum pushing Rune off balance.
His arms cartwheeled as he tried to regain his footing, but it was too late.
He hit the ice hard, his head bouncing as he slid into the trapezoid.
Where was the whistle? The fucking penalty?
Number eight hovered over him, wearing a dangerous smile.
I saw red.
I threw my stick and gloves.
My heart was beating hard and fast.
Gauthier went for Rune.
Hux held back Minns.
I got to eight first, Mironov on my tail.
I gripped his jersey and growled, “Y’all fuckin’ touched my goalie.”
“Just laying him down so you can suck his dick.”
I cocked my arm and let fly with a right hook. My fist connected with his mouth, and his mouthguard sailed out. His head snapped back.
He stumbled.
I wasn’t done. I raised my fist again, but strong arms pulled me away.
“That’s enough,” the ref ordered. “Two-minute penalty.”
“Where the fuck were you when he cross-checked Rune?” I bit out.
“Penalty box. Now, sixty-nine.”
I glared at number eight, and a sick satisfaction welled up inside me when he wiped the blood from his lip.
“Number eight, major penalty for goaltender interference. Five minutes in the box.”
I grumbled my way over to pick up my gloves and stick, then skated to our box.
My hand hurt like a mother. I stretched my fingers out and tightened them into a fist with no extra pain.
My hand wasn’t broken, just sore. I gave the team medic the thumbs-up and waited out the longest two minutes of the game.
***
We won in a shutout.
Coach pulled Rune off for the rest of the game to get him checked out, and Austin took over at the crease. But with five on four and seconds left before eight had served the rest of his penalty and the game buzzer sounded, we scored again.
It was all over for the Grizzlies.
“Good game, boys,” Coach praised as we tumbled over the boards.
I looked up at the stands and grinned at Keeley, who was holding a sleeping Hannah.
I blew her a kiss and saw her laugh before she ducked her head.
I found Spencer a few rows back. He gave me a small dip of his chin, his smile only for me.
Steam rose off my jersey, and sweat ran in rivulets down the dip in my spine and between my pecs.
My heart was hammering, yet it kicked up a notch when I saw them.
I imagined Keeley sitting next to Spencer, with Hannah between them, as they watched the game.
I thought about going home to them. I wanted it more than I could express.
I was the last to leave the bench and followed the stampede of Seals down the tunnel.
Laughter and whoops surrounded me, the boys chirping and playfully shoving one another around.
We were all testosterone-fueled teenagers, and I fuckin’ loved it.
I’d never thought this life was possible.
Growing up on football had been a chore, but hockey was a dream come true.
Tape was flying and sticks were slapping against the rubber matting on the floor of the locker room when I walked in. There was a chant of “Rune, Rune, Rune,” which I gladly joined.
“Y’all nailed their asses to the wall,” I shouted and gripped Rune’s shoulders, giving him a playful shake. “What a shutout.”
“You threw down gloves for me,” he responded and held up his fist for a bump. I met him halfway and grinned.
“And I’d do it again. Eight’s on my shit list.”
“Rune, you’re fronting the press,” Coach called out, his voice carrying over the ruckus.
I left him to it and stripped off my skates, jersey, and pads, hanging them in my cubby.
Most of the team were already in the weights room, cooling down before I’d finished stripping off my gear.
I heard a throat clear, and I turned. I recognized the couple—a man who looked like a model and a gorgeous woman with curves in all the right places, jet-black hair with bangs, and a killer smile.
She was wearing Rune’s number on her jersey, while he was perfectly put together and completely out of place in a locker room.
His silky-looking black tailored pants were cut a little above his ankle, and he wore black loafers, a purple sweater, black scarf, and a long overcoat in a rich purple that perfectly matched the Seals’ colors.
He wasn’t in a jersey, but it was obvious he was a fan.
“G’day, Miller,” he said.
“Remind me who y’all’re again,” I responded, knowing I’d met them but not remembering their names.
“I’m Beckett’s girlfriend, Cleo,” the woman answered and stepped forward to shake my hand. “We met at the team barbecue.” She gestured to the man standing next to her and added, “This is our friend, Joey Hudson. We just wanted to thank you.”
Rune had good taste, but his attempts at hiding his relationship were pitiful. Maybe no one else had picked up on it, believing his description of Joey as a friend, but I saw straight through it. I’d seen straight through it the first time he’d spoken about them both.
“For defending Becks. I—we—appreciate it,” Joey finished, cutting off my thoughts. He smiled, and I blinked. If he’d been good-looking before, he was downright beautiful when he smiled.
Keeley swept into the room, holding a sleeping Hannah against her chest and a padded bag slung over her free arm.
“Cleo, Joey, hey. Rune had a heck of a night.” They greeted her, repeated their thanks to me, and exited. Keeley turned her attention to me the moment we were largely alone. I had her almost all to myself. “Miller, good game too.”
“Of course it was,” I teased.
“I expected nothing less.” She rolled her eyes and added, “I’ve emailed you some pointers on what to post online after your penalty. Stick with the script, please. We want fans to respond positively. Remember you’re trying to become family friendly.”
“But I’m so much better when I misbehave.” I wiggled my brows and shot her a grin.
She stepped in closer to me, and I inhaled her scent.
It was something subtle. Not floral or spicy, just something I couldn’t name, but my dick sure took notice.
I was still in my undershirt, soaked from the game, but she didn’t hesitate to pat my pec and purr, “You’ll get a gold star if you behave. ”
I sucked in a breath and Keeley gave me a satisfied smile. “Good boy.”
“Y’all’re teasin’ me, darlin’,” I rasped, my accent so much stronger whenever I was turned on.
“Go do what you need to do, Miller. Then get some sleep.”
I laughed, then adjusted my hardening dick still in my cup. “Sleepin’ is the last thing on my mind, darlin’.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt his presence before I saw him.
Spencer.
I searched the room, and our gazes clashed. He was standing in the doorway, his arms braced on the bulkhead. My mind’s eye flashed with my earlier fantasy—me going home to both him and Keeley—and in that moment, it didn’t feel like a stretch at all. I wanted exactly that.
Spencer gestured outside with a tilt of his head, and I understood his silent order. Cool down, shower, and meet me outside.
Then Keeley was called away, and the connection I’d been manifesting so hard snapped. My cooldown was as quick as I could make it and the shower was a thirty-second affair. I threw on my clothes, then hightailed it out the player’s entrance.
Spencer was waiting for me at my truck, his legs crossed at the ankles. He was leaning his head back against the cab, his eyes closed, blocking out the spotlights overhead.
I threw my bag in the back and then crowded Spencer, pressing myself against every inch of him. He grasped my hips and pulled me closer until we were connected from chest to knee.
“We won,” I murmured against his mouth. He pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of my lips, a tease of what he was capable of. I gasped when he tightened his grip on my hips. I wanted him to leave fingerprint-sized bruises there after he’d fucked me into oblivion.
“You did.” He nuzzled my throat, and my body lit up like a firecracker. I was already hardening, my cock throbbing with every heartbeat “Is your hand okay?”
“It’s fine. Hurt for a minute, but it’s good now.”