Chapter 24
PEYTON
After I’d finished warming up, I was still alone on the ice. For a few minutes, I skated lazy circles and fired a few pucks at the net, all the while glancing toward the chute for Avery.
Was he bailing? Had he decided not to do this after all?
Because he’d looked rough when he came into the locker room. I’d seen him a few times after his therapy sessions, and they obviously took a toll, but today? Jesus. He looked like he was hungover, jetlagged, or even recovering from the flu or something. All three at the same time, honestly.
Damn. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea. Maybe I should’ve hung around the locker room for a few more minutes. Feel him out. See if he really was up for—
Clomp clomp clomp.
The familiar sound of someone walking in skates yanked my attention back to the chute, and I was glad no one but me could feel or hear the way my pulse surged.
Avery paused to put his water bottle in one of the racks by the bench, then glided out onto the ice as if he’d never been away.
He had on a gold practice jersey with no name or number, and a white helmet, same as he would for any practice, but he looked as hot to me as when he skated onto the ice for a game.
His focus was sharp. His dark hair curled around the edges of his helmet.
The way he moved… God, he was mesmerizing.
He hadn’t missed a step, either. He moved a little slower than he usually did, even during practice, but he was as precise and confident as ever.
His earlier fatigue seemed to be gone, too.
Sometimes that was all it took—getting into hockey gear and hitting the ice. There was something almost magic about it. I’d dragged myself to training facilities in the past, sure I would rather be run over by the Zamboni than practice, but once I was on the ice, I was good.
That must’ve been the case for Avery, because holy shit, he was a different person now that he was skating.
As he warmed up, he picked up some speed, too.
Not full speed—this was a light, unofficial practice, after all—but definitely not beer league speed either.
When he fired a shot at the net and missed, the puck cracked against the boards loud enough to echo through the whole rink.
Watching him like that, I was lucky I didn’t lose an edge.
This version of him—this loose, effortless version—was the Avery I’d drooled over for years.
I’d loved watching him play hockey from the moment he’d made the Whiskey Rebels’ roster, and the more I’d seen him in interviews and hype photos, the more I’d watched him as more than just a hockey player.
He was my absolute catnip—addictive to watch on the ice, jaw-droppingly gorgeous off the ice, and with a beautiful smile and a wicked laugh that made my brain short circuit.
And right then, while I was distracted by how much I wanted him, I didn’t realize he was skating toward me. Not until he skidded up next to me and showered me with ice crystals.
Eh, a cold shower was a cold shower.
I laughed as I dusted myself off. “Dick.”
“What?” He graced me with that wicked laugh. “You could’ve moved.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I flipped him off. “You want to practice or not?”
“I’ve been practicing. I was just waiting for you to join me.”
Rolling my eyes, I muttered, “For God’s sake.” I grabbed a puck on my stick. “Let’s do this.” I paused. “Or we could make it a challenge.”
He grinned. “Go on.”
Pretending that grin wasn’t going to be my undoing, I said, “Get out the goalie practice pucks.”
Avery guffawed. “Bro, we are not playing with white pucks. Fuck that.”
“What? Why not?” I tapped his skate with my stick. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
He narrowed his eyes. Then he shrugged. “You know what? Fine. You talk a good game.” He gestured toward the locker room. “Go get us a white puck.”
“Yeah? You in?”
“One-on-one, white puck, first to five?”
“You got it.” I skated toward the bench. “Be right back.”
Of course now that I’d dropped the gauntlet, I wasn’t quite sure where the white pucks actually lived. I’d only ever seen the goalie coaches bring them out a few times (usually to a chorus of cursing from Ziggy and Laramie), but where did they actually get them from?
I didn’t want to go rifling through the equipment managers’ bins, and I didn’t know if Ziggy would text me back in time (wasn’t he golfing this afternoon?). I could check one of the cabinets where we kept pucks, though, since they might—
Ah. Jackpot.
I grabbed a couple of the diabolical discs out of the bucket. They were off white, and they were hard as hell to see on the ice. Great for honing a goalie’s ability to track a puck.
And also great for a couple of skaters who were just fucking around on the ice.
“Jesus Christ.” Avery’s voice echoed off the rafters. “Did you have to Prime them?”
“I had to find the damn things.” I tossed them onto the ice, sending them sliding toward him. “They’re hard to see!”
Avery caught one on his stick. “I saw this one just fine. Don’t know what your problem was.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I joined him on the ice. “I’m hearing a lot of talking, but I’m not seeing any—”
He whipped past me, hip checking me and protecting the puck all the way. “Sorry, what was that?” He called over his shoulder. “I didn’t hear you!”
I laughed as I skated after him. “You’re an asshole!”
Avery cackled, then slapped the puck into the goal and pumped his stick in the air.
I just rolled my eyes and collected the puck from the back of the net. “That was a cheap shot.”
“Pfft. You let your guard down.” He skated up and skidded to a halt, showering me with ice crystals again. “The commentators would’ve had a field day with that.”
“I stand by what I said.” I brushed snow off my face and jersey. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, but I’m also one goal ahead of—hey!”
I charged toward the other goal, the puck on my stick, and it was my turn to cackle as he cursed at my back.
He almost caught me, though; I was halfway across the offensive zone when he tried to poke check the puck away. He came close, but I managed to shoulder check him off me and score.
“One-one!” I pumped my fist. “Kiss my ass, Calds!”
Still laughing, he knocked his shoulder into my back, and I whacked his shin with my stick.
“Fine, dickhead.” He huffed melodramatically. “We’re tied. Still first to five?”
“Sounds good.” I dug the puck out of the net. “Too bad we don’t have someone to drop the puck for us. We could actually do a faceoff.”
“Yeah, but what fun is that? I suck at faceoffs, and besides…” He swiped the puck off my blade and took off. “We don’t need them!”
I rolled my eyes again. I shouldn’t have even been surprised.
Avery edged me out 5-4, but it was close.
By the time he potted that last goal, we were both drenched in sweat, and I was exhausted like I’d just played thirty minutes in a real game.
“You know,” I panted as I skated up beside him. “This was supposed to be some friendly one-on-one. And some of us had practice this morning.”
The innocent look he shot me was too damned cute. “It was friendly, wasn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. I think I’m gassed, though.”
“Me too, now that you mention it.”
We started toward the bench and the water bottles we’d left on top of the dashers.
After I’d taken a drink, I poured some down the back of my neck. “Do you, um, want to grab some—” I glanced at the clock on the scoreboard. “Okay, it’s a bit late for lunch, but maybe an early dinner?”
Avery looked in the same direction, then shrugged, and when he faced me again, his smile could’ve melted the ice beneath our skates. “Yeah, I could eat. Got anywhere in mind?”
There was a restaurant right beside the training center that players and staff alike frequented, but I had a feeling that might be a little high-profile for him right now.
“Well.” I hesitated. “I was planning to cook tonight, since I don’t have to be at the arena. You’re welcome to join me?”
Surprise flickered across his face, and for a moment, I was sure I’d overstepped. We were on strange ground and had been for a while, and I didn’t want to complicate that any more than we already had.
But then he smiled. “I didn’t know you cooked.”
Some warmth rushed into my face as I half-shrugged. “I won’t be competing on MasterChef any time soon, but I can hold my own.”
“Well, now I’m curious.” He tipped his head toward the locker room. “Shall we?”
I tried not to think about why my heart sped up as we headed off the ice. Over my shoulder, I asked, “Do you like salmon?”
“I love salmon.” He paused to deposit his stick on the rack. “Can I bring something?”
The words “maybe a bottle of wine or something?” very nearly flew from my lips. I caught them, though, and went with, “I didn’t have anything planned for dessert. If you want to grab something sweet…”
“I can do that. If I had more time, I’d make something, but storebought will have to do.”
As I stepped into the locker room ahead of him, I glanced back. “You bake?”
He grinned and puffed out his chest. “I’ll have you know I’m an exceptionally mediocre baker.”
I barked a laugh. “What exactly qualifies as ‘exceptionally mediocre’?”
“I can hold my own without burning anything,” he explained as he pulled off his helmet. “And most of what I make is pretty good. But nobody’s ever going to ask me to make a wedding cake again.”
“Again?” I cocked a brow as I took off my own helmet. “Is there a story there?”
“One I’ll tell you over dinner, yes.”
“Deal.”
With post-practice plans established, we started stripping off our gear. We undressed with all the unselfconsciousness of guys who’d been in hockey locker rooms since we were kids.
Usually there were a lot of people getting in or out of gear, though. Or at least a lot of people and activity. I couldn’t remember a time when it had been just me and one other person without any other noise or movement around us.
Especially when that one other person was someone as intensely attractive as Avery Caldwell.