Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Throw me a fucking bone
Reid
Another week, another game I’m not dressed for. Skating drills I can handle. It’s the standing still that fucks with me.
I lean my forearms against the rink boards, watching the last few minutes of warm-up unfold in a blur of navy and burgundy jerseys. The puck snaps from Chase’s stick to Jake’s in a clean tape-to-tape pass. Logan goes five-hole on the backup goalie and grins like he’s just won the Cup.
They’re loose tonight. That’s good.
Coach Benson wants me back for playoffs—assuming we make it to the conference rounds. No fucking pressure or anything.
The knee’s held up so far. I’ve cleared contact, cleared drills, been skating for a few weeks without a setback.
But games are a different beast, and I’m still benched.
I’m now traveling with the team at least, but still sitting with the trainers and watching from the end of the bench like a glorified mascot.
I’ll take skating over nothing. I’ll take drills, tape, physio, late-night icing, even the endless fucking bike. I just want to be back in my crease again, protecting the line.
And sitting here thinking about that, accompanied by the fact that I haven’t heard from Carina since our night together, is driving me nuts.
It’s been a week since I had the best sex of my life, since she pulled me into her bed and told me to ruin her.
A week since I did exactly that—and then stayed wrapped around her, holding her while she slept, listening to the quiet drag of her breath against my shoulder and pretending like it didn’t mean anything.
She hasn’t called or texted, not even a goddamn emoji. Nothing.
Unless you count the moment I passed her at the clinic. She was walking one way; I was walking the other. I clocked her before she even saw me—her hair was clipped up, and she had a coffee in one hand, a file in the other.
When she looked up, she didn’t even falter. Just gave me a perfectly polite once-over as though nothing had changed between us.
Except everything had.
“Hey, Reid,” she’d said, like she hadn’t begged me to spank her clit a few days earlier. “How’s the leg?”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Hey, Doc. How’s the stress?”
It landed because she paused for about half a second. Just enough for me to catch the twitch of her mouth and the flicker of something in her eyes before she brushed my arm and kept going.
And I let her go, even though every vessel in my bloodstream was screaming at me to follow her.
I would’ve guided her back into her office, closed the door behind us, and reminded her exactly what we both agreed to up against the wall.
Exactly how good I can make her feel and why she let go with me in the first place.
But I didn’t, because she hasn’t asked.
We made a deal. No strings, no expectations, just sex when we need some stress relief. Physical release, that’s it.
At the time, I agreed—and I meant it. But now, I’m stuck here on the goddamn bench thinking about it.
I can’t stop picturing the way she sounded when she begged me not to stop, and the way she gasped when I told her she didn’t get to be in charge.
The way she let me have her, the way she trusted me enough to give her what she needed.
The way her body melted against mine when I pulled her into my chest and told her to sleep, and especially the way she looked at me afterward, when I got up to go.
The silence. The unexplained ache behind her eyes.
And now I’m the one losing sleep, because I’ve told myself not to push. Told myself she’ll reach out when she wants more. And if she doesn’t… well, that was our deal.
The truth is, I’d take more in a heartbeat.
But instead, I’m sitting here like an asshole, pretending I don’t care that I’m waiting for her to throw me a fucking bone.
Fuck.
Back in the locker room, the Storm get ready for the game.
I run my hand along the curve of my chest protector, checking buckles out of habit while the others trail in from warm-up.
Steam and sweat hit the air, and I realize I’ve almost—almost—missed the smell of the locker room.
Eli’s jersey is already soaked, Chase is flushed and chirping Viktor already, and Jake’s loudly judging Logan’s stick tape.
“Hey, Hutch,” a voice pipes up behind me. “You always label your gear?”
I glance over my shoulder. It’s Luka, our newest rookie center—nineteen, baby-faced, and still not quite grown into his legs. Good instincts on the ice, though. Reminds me of myself back when I still thought a mouthguard was optional and my hair looked better long.
“What?” I grunt.
He points to the inside of my blocker. “Initials,” he says. “Here, and there too. On your pants and chest pad.”
“Yeah.” I turn back, adjusting them in my stall. “It’s a thing I do.”
“Weird goalie voodoo,” Chase chimes in, stretching his arms overhead. “Probably makes sacrifices and bathes them in elk blood.”
“He sacrifices his social life,” Jake mutters. “Same result.”
I ignore them, but Luka’s still staring.
“What do they mean?”
There’s a pause, just long enough for me to consider whether to answer, because I’ve never had to before. I blow out a breath.
“They’re for people.”
Chase looks up, brows drawn. Jake and Eli go quiet and glance at each other, and Logan just tips his head curiously, as though he wasn’t anticipating a real answer.
I gesture to the letters on my chest plate. “These are my parents. Died when I was seven in a car accident. I don’t remember much, but they were the first people who put me in skates.”
It gets quiet, and a few more of the guys look over.
I tap another set, near the edge of the pad. “A.H. That’s Adele. My grandma. She’s gone now, too.”
“And H.H. must be for Harry,” Eli says, nodding at the other edge.
Jake lets out a low whistle. “The man, the legend, the green thumb.”
“Yep,” I say, allowing a smile. “Still kickin’.”
“Who’s D.W.?” Chase asks, pointing toward the stitched letters near my right bicep strap.
“Coach Dan,” I say. “First guy who believed I had a shot. Taught me to fight for it.”
I see Logan squinting at my left leg pad. “B and T?
“Billet family.”
Jake glances at my catcher’s glove, resting on the shelf above my stall. “And what about that one?”
I don’t look, focusing on my pads.
“It’s blank.”
“Blank?” Logan echoes, eyebrows raised like I just told him I eat pucks for breakfast. “Why?”
“Saving it,” I mutter.
Chase tilts his head. “For who?”
I shrug. “Dunno yet.”
There’s another moment of silence, and then Logan suddenly grins and reaches for a marker from the shelf in his stall.
“What are you doing?” Eli asks flatly, already not liking the smirk on Logan’s face.
“Doing what must be done,” Logan declares, and hooks his thumb into the waistband of his blue hockey pants.
He tugs the front down just enough to expose the inside lining, bending slightly as he starts scrawling something along the inner band. I see a glint in Logan’s eye, the sudden inspiration that usually ends in chaos—or brilliance. Sometimes it’s both.
Eli frowns. “If you’re writing my sister’s name somewhere inappropriate, I swear to God—”
But he stops when Logan straightens and tugs the waistband forward, just enough for us to see.
Z. C.
“Zoe Carlson!” Logan announces proudly. “To keep Walton really locked in on the ice.”
Chase chokes on his water beside me. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
Jake snorts, and Viktor mutters something in Swedish, while Eli buries his face in his towel.
“I’m going to fucking murder you, Miller!”
Chase lunges at Logan, who’s in hysterics, and I’m the lucky bastard who gets to hold him back.
“It’s for morale!” Logan laughs.
And the thing is, it actually kind of is.
Chase has always played better when he’s pissed off.
Doesn’t matter how good he’s feeling going into the game, he plays tighter when he’s fired up—chirp shit or piss him off, and he locks down the blue line like a goddamn fortress.
With the backup goalie still in net, we need all the defensive heat we can get.
So yeah. Twisted as it sounds, Logan might be onto something.
“Morale!?” Chase barks, straining against my grip. “By writing my girlfriend’s initials inside your damn pants?”
Logan beams. “Zoe Carlson. For optimal defensive performance.”
“You’re fucking dead.”
“If we win, tell her I’ll scrub it off. But if we lose… it’s staying.”
“You’ll be telling her from the ground,” Chase growls, but he’s holding it together. Just.
“You’re welcome for the boost,” Logan calls as he flicks the waistband once more before tugging it back into place. “Just trying to keep our top D-man properly motivated.”
“You’re fucking unhinged,” Eli mutters, grabbing tape from the bench. “And I say that as someone related to your own girlfriend.”
Logan throws an arm around him. “Don’t worry, Big Brother. Her name’s written on my heart.”
Eli sharply shrugs him off, and Logan chuckles.
I let go of a muttering Chase and shake my head, dropping back down onto the bench to let the last of the locker room noise and Coach Benson’s strategy wash over me before we head back down the tunnel.
And for all the chaos and sheer unhinged energy of this team, I’m so happy to be back amongst these idiots.
We win the game, the boys playing out of their goddamn minds. And Chase—possibly motivated by pure homicidal rage—shut down the blue line like his life depended on it. I’m not saying Logan’s unholy waistband stunt deserves a medal, but it’s pretty fucking close.
Still, none of that’s what I’m thinking about when I check my phone after the final buzzer and see a text notification.
Havoc: Good game?
My mouth twitches, and I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. I don’t respond right away, not because I don’t want to, but because I do. Don’t want to seem too eager.