Chapter 6
Jefferson
The place is buzzing–shoulder to shoulder with fans from the game, all riding the high of our win. Every table is packed, the bar is three deep, and the air smells like beer, sweat, and victory. Feels fucking good.
There’s no actual drinking allowed, not this close to the finals.
The food is greasy and hits the spot after burning thousands of calories on the ice.
Most of the team is mingling with a fresh group of puck bunnies since we’re not on our home turf.
These are expert level bunnies, willing to come out for the Championship, happy to help celebrate our win.
I said most of the team. Reese, Reid, and Axel are tucked into a booth with overflowing baskets of food in front of them and wide-ass grins.
No girls on their laps, no numbers being handed over, nothing but the sound of their laughter echoing under the music and clinking glasses.
Whipped bastards. I tease them for it, naturally.
“Remember when you used to be fun?” I nudge Axel as I pass by.
He just flips me off and raises a chicken wing. “Remember when you weren’t jealous?”
I smirk. “Jealous? Of your missionary sex and lack of mystery?”
“Monogamy’s good for the soul,” Reese chimes in with that smug, post-win glow.
“Maybe,” I say, stretching. “But while you’re doomed for a night of rubbing off to phone sex, I’m going to have the real deal.”
They don’t care. They’re content with their relationships–safe with the thought of their girls back home. Me? I’ve got a little more energy to burn.
I weave through the crowd, letting the heat of the room settle into my skin.
There's no shortage of hot women in the bar tonight–smiles flashing, eyes lingering. One of them slides into step beside me at the bar. Tall, blonde, clearly knows what she’s doing.
Her elbow brushes mine and she leans in close enough to smell her shampoo.
“You’re one of the players, right? Enforcer.” Her eyes drop to my lips and then back up. “Parks.”
“That’s me.” I love being recognized. Especially by beautiful women.
“I saw the game. You guys crushed it.”
“Yeah, we did.”
She orders a drink and turns fully toward me, her body language loud and clear. Her dress is tight, her perfume expensive, her smile practiced. She’s exactly the kind of girl who’d look good in my bed and slip out before breakfast. Low effort, clean break. Exactly what I was hunting tonight.
Then I notice it, when she lifts her glass, a fine-line tattoo peeks out beneath the strap of her top. A single feather, light and delicate against her skin.
It’s not just any feather.
It’s that feather.
Same one that’s inked on Ingrid Flockton’s tour posters, merch, album covers. Subtle, sure, but anyone who’s ever lined up outside one of her concerts would know it. I sure as hell do.
My brain flashes back to Ingrid’s body pressed against mine in that dark little corner of the street, the taste of heat on her tongue. How I was after that kiss.
Fuck.
I haven’t messaged her since that night. Not because I didn’t want to. I’ve opened that thread a dozen times. Typed things. Deleted them. She’s famous. I’m a college hockey player. We live in different galaxies, and it’s not like I expect her to orbit into mine.
The girl beside me takes a step closer. “So... want to find somewhere a little more private?”
Her voice is soft, her hand already brushing against my chest.
The ‘yes,’ is on the top of my tongue, but right as I open my mouth, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
I check it without thinking.
IngFlock: Congrats on the game tonight.
Everything inside me pauses.
The room doesn’t, but I do. The noise fades, the voice of the girl standing with me blurs, the heat between us cools in an instant. That message: simple, casual, timed to perfection, slices through the haze I’ve been chasing all night.
She was watching?
I look down at the message again. One little line has just opened the door to a hundred possibilities.
And suddenly, the last thing I want is a forgettable night with someone whose name I won’t remember.
“I should get back to my team,” I tell the girl, stepping away.
She pouts. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I slide my phone back in my pocket. “Something just came up.”
When it’s clear I’m not going to budge, she turns on her heel and heads over to a group of my teammates hanging by the bar. I cross the room and slide back into the booth.
“Did she blow you off?” Reid asks with a snicker.
“No,” I state firmly. “She was DTF. I just realized that I’ve got a lifetime to screw around with puck bunnies and only a few more nights like this with you guys.”
Reese grins. “You love us.”
“So much,” Axel adds, throwing his tattooed arm over my shoulder and giving me a side hug.
“It’s okay, big guy,” Reid winks, “we love you too.”
Two days later, I’m sitting on the edge of a bench in the locker room, scrolling my phone as my teammates get ready for the game.
Puck drop is in forty-five minutes. The energy in the room, a combination of pent up adrenaline and nerves, is overwhelming.
One step closer to that Frozen Four title, baby.
Me? I don’t do nervous, so I busy myself scrolling back over the messages from the last forty-eight hours, a stupid grin tugging at my mouth.
Jparks23: Does that mean you were watching?
IngFlock: Popped my hockey cherry.
I’d stared at that for a full minute before firing back.
Jparks23: How was it? For a first time.
IngFlock: Not as awkward as I expected. Little rough around the edges, but I was screaming by the end.
Jparks23: Wish I could’ve been there to see it.
The messages have spanned the past few days. The two of us firing off little shots while I’ve navigated practices, workouts and watching the other games. Ingrid was busy traveling by tour bus across the midwest.
Jparks23: When’s your next show?
IngFlock: Tomorrow. Minneapolis. Too bad you can’t come and pop your cherry.
Jparks23: Oh, sweetheart, I popped my Ingrid Flockton cherry a long time ago.
IngFlock: You’ve been to a concert?
Jparks23: Not that kind of cherry.
IngFlock: I’m listening…
Jparks23: I lost my virginity to one of your songs.
There was a pause long enough for me to wonder if I’d gone too far. Fuck.
IngFlock: Which song?
Jparks23: You’ll have to guess.
IngFlock: Velvet Skin?
Jparks23: Nope.
IngFlock: Honey Drip.
I smile. That would have been a good one.
Jparks23: Wrong.
She kept trying, four more guesses, each one a miss. I learned one thing about Ingrid, she loves playing games too.
The last text came in an hour ago. A simple, Good luck.
I close the phone and center myself on the present. How the air smells like tape adhesive, menthol rub, and damp gear. A low bass line from Reid’s speaker thumps under the chatter.
Across the room, Axel is taping his stick, head down in concentration, until he glances up. “Who are you texting nonstop? That phone’s been glued to your hand since we got here.”
I smirk, shoving it into my duffel. “Your mama.”
He groans and rolls his eyes. “Original. My mother would eat you alive, spit you out, and then read Bible verses to you until you begged to be put out of your misery”
If he’s waiting for a real answer, he’s shit out of luck. I pull my jersey over my pads, tugging it down until it sits just right on my shoulders. My gloves hang open on the bench next to me, the palms worn in so they feel like a second skin.
I’m not just keeping this from Axel, I’m not telling any of them. Not about meeting Ingrid. Not about the kiss. Not about the late-night texts that make it hard to focus on anything else. Even if I did tell them, even if they believed me, the ribbing I would get would be merciless.
Hard pass.
The door opens and Coach Bryant steps in, clapping his hands once, loud, sharp.
“All right, men, settle down. This is it. You’ve been working for this moment all season.
Some of you are here for the first time.
A few others,” his eyes flit over to Reese, “are here for a second chance. Whatever the reason, we’re here to win it.
Forty minutes at a time, all gas, no brakes.
You play our game, and nobody’s taking this from you. ”
“Hell no they aren’t!” Reese shouts, rising up to set the tone as our captain. He’s a good leader. A good man. I’m lucky to have played with him and call him a friend.
The rest of the team builds on that energy. Heads nodding, gloves slapping against knees. Axel yells, “Let’s go!”
I roll my shoulders, feeling the weight of the pads, the stretch of the jersey.
As I stand, Coach Green, our trainer, passes by, gives my shoulder a quick, firm check. “Ready, Parks?”
“Always,” I tell him, mouth curling into that game-time grin.
The tunnel to the ice is waiting. And for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling like I’ve got more than one kind of win to chase.
I stare down at center ice, hyper aware that we’re in the third period, five minutes left.
We’re up by one, but it’s not enough. Not against Central.
It falls in a blink, but Reese takes the draw, wins it clean, snaps the puck back to Reid. I’m already in motion, cutting down the right side, looking for an opening. Reid feeds it to Emerson, who threads it across the neutral zone to me.
I take the pass on my blade, skate hard, and hear the crunch of their winger chasing me down. Dropping a shoulder, I fake the dump, and slide it behind me to Reese, because fuck yes, he’s got a lane. He rips a shot from the top of the circle and it soars–
Clang. Off the post.
The rebound’s chaos–sticks, skates, bodies colliding. I’m in the thick of it, trying to muscle their defenseman, Lennox, off the puck. He throws an elbow and I take it hard in the ribs.
Wrong move.
“Is that how you want it?” I ask, shoving him back, hard enough his helmet rattles. The puck squirts free, Emerson dives for it–but the ref’s whistle cuts through everything. The game, the guys, the crowd, screeching to a halt.
“Twenty-three! Roughing!”
My stick hits the ice in frustration. “Come on! He–”
“Box. Now.”
The refs don’t give a shit that we’re this close. This close to moving on. This close to taking the whole goddamn thing.
I skate to the penalty box with my blood running hot, adrenaline still tearing through my chest. The crowd’s a blur of black, gold, and waving signs. Axel gives me a look from the crease–half ‘calm down,’ half ‘good hit.’
I don’t even dare look at Coach, although I can hear him. He’s pissed. Both at me and the ref. At the risk. I drop onto the hard bench, lean my stick against the wall, and tug my helmet up. My eyes drift toward the premium seats as a distraction.
Wait. What the hell?
There’s no mistaking Twyler, although I’m still not used to seeing her in the stands and not down with the players, icing muscles and wrapping sprains with our head trainer, Coach Green, by the bench. She’s not supposed to be here. Neither are Nadia, or Shelby.
Yet there they are, crammed into prime seats, dressed out in Reid’s Wittmore designs.
Twyler’s yelling something I can’t make out–probably cursing me to hell and back for taking the penalty.
Nadia’s nervously shoving popcorn in her mouth, while Shelby leans close to her.
On the far end another girl leans forward in a heavy black coat and black stocking cap that has a gold pompom on top.
Lavender hair spills out from underneath.
She’s angled like she doesn’t want anyone to see her face.
But I see her. Holy fuck, I see her. I drag my eyes back to the game, attempting to focus on the biggest moment of my life and not the woman in the stands.
Try, and fucking fail. She came to my game. She’s sitting there in the cold glow of the rink, pretending she’s just another fan. I can’t smile. I won’t smile. Not when the scoreboard says we’re still in a fight and the ref’s still arguing with Coach from center ice.
But my pulse? Yeah, it just shifted gears.
This game was already worth winning.
Now?
This just got a hell of a lot more interesting.