Chapter 3
three
SEBASTIAN
Trying to wrangle my drunk teammates is like herding cats when their wives and girlfriends aren’t around.
“Griffin. No one wants to see the bruise on your ass. Please do not pull your pants down. I really don’t want to bail you out of jail tonight.
” Pinching the bridge of my nose when our first-line left-wing pouts like a disappointed toddler, I shove him down onto the padded seat of the booth, grateful when he stops trying to unbutton his dress pants.
I understand why they’re all letting loose—we had a solid win tonight, and the past few weeks have been crazy stressful, what with our right-wing, Logan’s, girlfriend and her little brother almost trapped in an apartment fire set by his stalker, moving them in, and everyone having to make statements with the police—but I don’t think public nudity was what the ladies had in mind when they suggested we enjoy a guys’ night without worrying about driving home.
They’re planning to pick us up from the bar, not the police station.
“Don’t be uptight, Bashy,” Griffin says, his voice louder than normal thanks to the alcohol. “You’re being very dad-like tonight. We need to get you laid, bro.”
I close my eyes and bang my head on the back of the booth, tired of this conversation. Griffin means well, I know he does, but it’s not as simple as needing to get laid. Especially when I’m the only responsible one at the moment. Which isn’t uncommon. “I’m good.”
I’m no saint, despite their teasing. When you’re a professional athlete, there’s no shortage of beautiful women willing to give you as much attention as you want, and I’ve taken advantage of that plenty of times.
Not to the degree that Logan and Griffin used to before they met their women, but I’ve never gone this long without sex.
Watching my best friends fall in love, get engaged and married, and go from enthusiastic bachelors to men excited to go home to their partners seems to have put the final nail in the coffin of casual sex for me.
Because I want what they have. At one point, I thought I’d found it.
Now, I’m not sure it’s in the cards for me, and I’m tired of the whole game.
Ryder, one of our defensemen, props his elbow on the table and leans his chin on his palm. “I bet Lexi and the other ladies could set you up with someone.”
God, no. That sounds like torture.
“I’m good.” I’ll concentrate on the kids I always visit at the hospital and hockey.
We’re on a hot streak, and I can’t afford to lose my focus.
An off night for the rest of these guys means someone else scores or they don’t see as much ice time.
An off night for me means pucks slip past my gloves and we lose games.
Maybe it’s better nothing is pulling my focus from the game.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The buzzer sounds and red lights flash in the arena when Maddox sinks another shot, bringing the score against the Nashville Coyotes to three-zero, with only ten minutes left in the final period.
The guys have done a good job keeping Nashville’s shots on goal down, but they’re getting more aggressive as the game goes on. No one wants to lose with a zero on the board, and Nashville has had a rough season, so they’re feeling the pressure.
I’m fifteen shutouts away from breaking the existing Rogues’ record for highest lifetime regular-season shutouts, and I wouldn’t mind making it fourteen after tonight. Nashville doesn’t feel the same.
“Back the fuck off,” Ryder growls at one of the Coyotes’ wingers as he crowds the crease, getting way too close to the little blue box that makes up my territory. He’s been pushing the limit for most of the game, but as the clock ticks down, his skates get closer to the line.
The winger chirps something at Ryder that I don’t catch, because I’m too focused on watching the puck, then Ryder shoves the guy.
“Try it,” Ryder shouts, dodging the winger’s attempt to push him back before elbowing the guy in the ribs to get him away from the crease.
Tracking the biscuit, I scan the ice as the Coyotes get it past the neutral zone on my left.
Ryder and our other D-man, Javier, are on them, and I ignore Nashville’s clingy winger as he sets himself up between the puck and me.
Frustration bubbles in my veins when he gets in my line of sight, and I shift in the crease.
Hanson barrels into Nashville’s center, slamming him into the boards hard and clean. For being such a nice guy off the ice, Ryder’s lethal on it. He chips the puck back toward the center line, and I glance up at him to make sure he’s good when my attention snags on something in the stands.
Correction. Someone, not something.
Pink hair with an almost orange tint to it, bright hazel eyes that aren’t watching the action because they’re focused on me, and a constellation of freckles across her button nose and full cheeks that I’d long ago mapped after hours of daylight stargazing.
A dark plum peacoat hugs every curve perfectly.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember.
Her eyes widen when she notices my attention, but her apparent shock has nothing on the roar of the blood in my veins and the erratic thundering of my heart.
My vision tunnels as I lose my grip on the control I value more than almost anything.
Every player on the ice disappears, the cacophony of the crowd is nothing more than static in my ears, and I swear to god, every light in the arena reorients itself to shine a spotlight on her.
What is she doing here?
“Indie?”
“Bash,” Ryder shouts. “Fucking wake up, man!”
Shaking my head, I bring my attention back to the ice.
I can’t let my team down. Nashville has possession of the puck, and they’re dancing around Maddox and our D-men, getting closer and closer to the net.
Their center pushes through Ryder and Javi, and instinct takes over.
My muscles bunch and tense, responding instinctively to each shift in posture, each flick of his stick.
Eight and a half minutes left in the game, and a beautiful ghost from my past has overridden all the determined focus I’ve maintained for the last eighty minutes. It’s stupid, and I bitch myself out even as I do it, but I steal a glance for a fraction of a second.
I’m sure it’s her.
I haven’t seen Indie in ten years, and there’s no reason for her to be here tonight, but I’d recognize her anywhere.
The call of the ice brings my attention back to where it needs to be, but the damage from my momentary distraction is already done.
Nashville’s center swings his stick back, lining up a shot.
I shift into a crouch in the net, ready for it, but I’m so focused on the puck and Indie, I don’t see the clingy winger that’s been up my ass until it’s too late.
He swings around Ryder, who’s dancing through Nashville’s offensive line to repel them, and instead of moving away from the crease to avoid a collision, he skates over the line and into my zone with too much momentum.
I’m crouched and ready to stop the puck, so I can’t dodge him as easily as if I’d been standing.
Nashville’s winger slams into me a second before their center slaps the puck over my glove.
My helmet hits the ice with a sharp crack as the biscuit sails into the net.
The fans boo and shout their displeasure as chaos erupts on the ice.
Ryder’s on the winger in moments, fists flying as he pounds the guy.
The rest of my teammates on the ice join the melee, and so do the Coyotes.
My ears ring from the force of the hit, and as I push myself up to my knees, my attention goes to the stands.
My pink-haired apparition has her hands over her rosebud mouth, those hazel eyes wide and worried as a dark-haired woman beside her with bright blue eyes wraps an arm around Indie’s shoulders.
Indie. Fuck, it is her.
“Dude, you good?” Maddox’s voice tugs me back to reality and away from the woman I’d given up hope of ever seeing again. When it takes me too long to respond, he crouches in front of me. I’m still on my knees. Still reeling from the hit and seeing her. “Do you have a concussion?”
“What? No.” I shake my head, my attention going to Indie, who’s still watching me with wide, worried eyes. “I’m good.”
“You don’t look good. Are you even with me right now?”
No. I’m with her.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good, man. Promise.”
Once the refs finish breaking up fights, they skate over to the bench and confer with our coach, Mike Fry, who scowls deeply, frown lines marring his face. They exchange a few heated words, Fry gesticulates to the net and me, then the ref nods before skating back a few feet to make his calls.
Ryder gets a five-minute penalty for beating the shit out of the Nashville’s winger, the winger gets five for fighting and an additional five-minute major penalty for goalie interference.
The crowd boos when Ryder’s penalty is called, but they cheer when they realize Nashville just gifted us a power play for the final three minutes of the game because their player will be out for the remainder of the matchup.
Frankly, he’s lucky he doesn’t end up with a game misconduct call after the shit he kept pulling in my zone.
The crowd gets even rowdier when the ref disallows Nashville’s goal, which means we’re still up three to zero, and I could still pull off a shutout.
If I can keep my mind off the fact that Indigo Rose Bloom is sitting less than a hundred feet away from me.
“Get your head in the fucking game,” I mutter to myself as Coach calls for a line change before the face-off.
I wish I could hop the boards and ask her what she’s doing here. Why she blocked my number ten years ago?
Today’s the day. I’ve been waiting an entire year to see her face. A year where I’ve been working up my courage to tell her how I feel.
I’m in love with her.