13. Goose
Chapter 13
Goose
I was on fucking fire tonight, and I couldn’t help wondering if Gemma was the reason.
Dragging my ass out of the warmth of her bed for the second time in one day was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do, especially knowing the Speed were hopping a flight out of town directly after the game and wouldn’t return for a few days.
My obsession with the woman had only grown since claiming her body, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Well, okay, that wasn’t entirely true because I was locked in on the game, making insane saves that would end up on sports network highlight reels for weeks to come, and I hadn’t allowed a single goal tonight.
Hockey players were a superstitious group. Some were picky about gear—refusing to change brands or wearing a particular item under their equipment even if it was gross or threadbare. Others had rituals—a specific pre-game meal they always ate or a certain routine in warmups they never wavered from. Then there were the general rules league-wide where you didn’t shave during playoffs for fear of bad luck or the perceived curse that touching the championship trophy if you hadn’t won it meant that you never would.
For me, I believed that uttering a particular word aloud would jinx a good thing I had going.
That word? Shutout.
And to this point, it had worked, considering I was the top goaltender in the league in that category.
I wanted it more than ever tonight. To dedicate the win—the shutout—to Gemma. I wasn’t only doing this for myself anymore. I was doing it for us. She had become a driving force, my motivation to be better than ever before.
Funny how your life could change in an instant.
Thoughts of my girl were pushed aside as the Miami Storm were headed my way on an odd-man rush. All three of their forwards were speeding through the neutral zone with only my two defenders, Wyatt Banks and Logan Ford, to stop them. I could see Braxton skating his ass off to catch up on the backcheck, but unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for him to close the gap before the Storm players reached me.
My eyes shifted, watching the progress of the rush as Wyatt and Logan skated backward. Should they fail to stop our opponents from reaching the net, I was the last line of defense.
And I was ready.
There might be three of them, but my gaze honed in on Norris, the one with the puck. I cataloged everything about the way his feet moved and how his blade was positioned in anticipation of his next move.
With his stick blade held parallel to the boards, I was waiting for him to pass to one of his teammates. It was only a matter of which one and when.
Lightning quick, he passed to the one in the middle, Jones, who tapped it to the one on the left, Eaton. That had Wyatt charging at Eaton as the puck was slid back over to Jones.
Now, it was Jones and Norris against Logan. Braxton had just cleared the blue line, coming in hot from behind the play.
With determination glinting in his eyes behind his visor, Jones pulled back to shoot. Even though I squared up, my glove at the ready, I knew from having watched countless hours of film on the Storm in preparation that it was a fake-out—he was going to pretend to wind up, only to pass to Norris.
Hold. Hold. Hold.
There.
Jones brought his stick blade down to the ice, but instead of a close-range slapshot, as he’d indicated, it was a quick flick of the wrist, sliding the puck to Norris, who was already poised to shoot the one-timer.
Logan did his best to break up the pass, going down to a knee and extending his stick between the two players for the Storm, but he was a split-second too late.
That meant only one thing: it was me versus Norris.
I’ve got this. Bring it on.
His stick was already coming down with force, so I pushed my feet out wide, digging my skates into the ice beneath them, ready to drop if he decided to be sneaky and try to go five-hole. Norris brought his stick down so hard there was a sharp crack as it met with the ice, and the puck was slung off his stick blade and into the air, hurtling straight toward me.
Hand-eye coordination was crucial in order to play goalie, and I’d worked hard over the years, honing that skill. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it was automatic, almost a reflexive muscle memory, where I reached out with a gloved hand and snagged a puck out of the air.
But they didn’t call hockey a game of inches for nothing.
I was off just a fraction, closing my glove too soon. So, instead of holding the puck securely long enough for the ref to whistle, signaling a stoppage in play, it dropped to the ice at my feet.
The Storm players tracked the move and were on me in a flash. I dropped to a butterfly, pressing my skate blades against both posts, splitting my legs to make sure they couldn’t shove the puck past me while my gloved hand groped blindly for the puck. I couldn’t see shit with all the skates and sticks flying in my vision.
Thank God the ref lost sight of the puck, too, because he blew his whistle even though I didn’t have it secured. That only pissed off the Storm, their players shouting it was still loose and ignoring the whistle, continuing to shove their sticks against my sprawled-out form, trying to jam the puck into the net.
The next thing I knew, Braxton came in with a flying cross-check to Norris’s face, sending him sprawling as he screamed, “Don’t touch my tendy!”
That started a chain reaction, and pretty soon, all ten skaters—five for each team—were engaged in a massive brawl. Punches were thrown, helmets were knocked off, and bodies were slammed to the ice. The refs were trying and failing to break it up, and as I rose to my feet, I couldn’t help but laugh.
There was no one else I’d rather go to war with on the ice than the guys currently duking it out on my behalf.
Asher was pulled from his position straddling Jones, grinning from ear to ear. He skated over to me as I tugged off my mask, grabbed a drink of water, and enjoyed my view of the chaos.
“You sure you don’t want a piece of the action?” he teased.
“Nah.” I shook my head. “You know me. I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”
“With the exception of that near miss, you’ve been hot tonight. Whatever you’ve got going, keep it up.”
Smirking, I replied, “Oh, I intend to.”
Now, I just needed to figure out how to get some of that good Gemma juju to work for me while the team was on the road and we couldn’t be together pre-game.
The team-chartered plane to Atlanta was dark. Most guys were trying to catch some sleep in the few hours before we landed, but I was too keyed up after the game—a two-to-zero victory for the Speed.
With my headphones on, music washed over me as I tried to calm down enough that I would be able to crash once we reached the hotel. A body dropping into the seat beside me had my head turning to find Braxton.
I’d been harsh on him this morning, but I wouldn’t apologize for defending Gemma. So, if that’s what he came over here looking for, he would leave disappointed.
Sighing, I tugged my headphones off until they rested around my neck. “What’s up?”
Braxton shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, and I braced for yet another round of disapproval over my choice of a life partner.
“Spit it out, Slate.” Using his last name let him know exactly where we stood.
My teammate blew out a heavy breath. “I was out of line earlier.”
A scoff sounded from deep in my throat. “You can say that again.”
“Seriously, Goose. I shouldn’t have made comments about your girl.”
“You don’t even know her. You judged her off a moment of passion strangers decided to exploit for laughs on the internet.”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry.”
I nodded a silent acknowledgment of his apology.
“Does she make you happy?” Braxton searched my eyes.
“Yeah, man. She’s it for me.”
Surprised eyebrows shot up high on his forehead. “Really? You think so already?”
“Seriously? You just apologized.”
He nudged my shoulder from the seat beside me. “Relax. It’s not a dig at Gemma. I’ve known you for a while, and I can tell it’s wearing on you to be the odd man out with all the couples. Plus, you were talking about finding the one when you had us all over to your place a few months ago. I’m only making sure you aren’t trying to force something because you’re lonely. That’s all.”
“I know you think I’m crazy for falling for a woman who lost her shit on me the first time we met, but—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Braxton held up his hands. “Did you say you’re falling for her?”
“No.”
He sagged back in his seat with a relieved sigh.
“I’ve already fallen. Hard.”
Whipping his head to the side, Braxton’s mouth dropped open.
“Come on, Braxton. At what point did you know Dakota was it for you?”
His features relaxed into a dreamy smile at the mention of his wife. “The night I met her,” he confessed, chuckling. “She had this spark, and I was drawn to it.”
“Then you should understand.”
Smirking, he shot back, “Gemma’s more than a spark. She’s a full-blown inferno.”
“You have no idea,” I muttered, my cock hardening at the memory of her on her knees for me. Thank God the lights were off.
Braxton huffed out a laugh. “We good?”
“Yeah.” I stretched out my legs, fighting back a yawn.
“So, now I have to ask . . .”
“What now?” I closed my eyes, sleep beginning to pull at me with the steady hum of the engines rumbling through the cabin.
I could hear the humor in Braxton’s voice. “With the way Norris was shoving his stick between your legs, do we need to pop off at a pharmacy and pick you up a pregnancy test?”
My bark of laughter was so loud that several grumbles and muttered shhh’s came from all directions. I had to throw a hand over my mouth to quiet myself as my teammate doubled over in silent laughter beside me.
“Fuck. That was a good one,” I praised. “Give that one to Dakota to use in a book.”
“What in the hell are the two of you doing back here?” Maddox’s angry voice hissed from where he stood, his bulky frame looming over us from the aisle.
I hitched a thumb in Braxton’s direction. “It’s his fault.”
Maddox shot a death glare at my buddy. “It’s past midnight, and it’s no small miracle that my deathly-afraid-of-flying pregnant wife is asleep.”
That had both of us chuckling again, and our coach only grew more agitated.
“What the fuck is so funny?” he growled.
Braxton gasped for air. “Nothing. Sorry.”
Maddox’s gaze shot between the two of us seated. “Keep it down.” With that, he stalked back up the aisle, his dark form barely able to fit between the seats.
“Way to throw me under the bus,” Braxton accused, but his tone remained playful. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell him you’re about to be belly buddies with Bristol.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be Dakota?”
He groaned. “If I had it my way, yes.”
“If a charming guy like you can’t convince your wife to let you give her baby, what hope do the rest of us have?”
Whiskey eyes bulged. “Jesus, Goose. You’re throwing curveballs at me left and right today. Are you trying to get Gemma pregnant? You just met her!”
I shrugged. “What’s the point in waiting? She’s older than me.”
Braxton ran a hand down his face. “It’s too late at night to be having this conversation.”
“Wanna place a bet to see who can get their girl knocked up first?”
His head shook violently. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
“Aw, come on.” I elbowed him gently. “Could be fun.”
“You don’t marry a romance author and not know how much hot water a bet can land you in. Especially one that’s as life-altering as this one. Because it’s not a matter of if they find out, but when , and when they do, all hell will break loose. I’m not risking my balls over what you perceive as friendly ‘fun’.”
Folding both arms over my chest, I taunted, “Afraid to lose. I get it.”
“Goose,” he groaned. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Didn’t he get it? Locking down Gemma permanently would be the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.