Puck Shy (Carolina Comets)

“For fuck’s sake, Wright. Have you never skated before? You look like a newborn cow looking for a tit out there. Move it or I’ll move you.”

I don’t think Coach Heller—or Coach Hell as we like to call him—has any idea what a baby cow looks like. He’s been a city dweller his whole life. Farm life would kill him.

I don’t respond. I just push harder. I know I’m skating like ass, but I’m tired as hell.

I waited until Harper’s taillights disappeared before I walked the four blocks back to my apartment. No way was I going to take her to my actual building.

When I finally dragged my ass up to the twentieth floor, I was fucking done for. I kicked off my shoes and face-planted onto my bed. I didn’t move until my alarm went off at 6 AM.

Even though I didn’t move, I dreamed.

And, man, were my dreams filled with Harper.

The longer we sat in that car together, the more I liked her. She was funny, smart, and almost painfully honest, not to mention she was insanely attractive. She doesn’t have that in-your-face kind of beauty. It’s the subtle kind that sneaks up on you, and damn did it sneak up on me. Every time she’d shift around in the seat and those shorts of hers would ride up higher, I’d have to talk my dick down from reacting.

I wanted to ask for her number as I stood there with my bags. Wanted to ask if I could see her again. And I really fucking wanted to kiss her.

But I was too chicken to do any of it.

Instead, I let her walk away without even knowing her last name.

And this morning I palmed my cock as I thought of her. After I came, I felt like a dick. The first thing I should have done was worry about if she got home okay, not jerk to thoughts of her. For all I know, she lied about her final destination too and had an even longer drive ahead of her.

I’m such an ass.

My defense partner skates up next to me as we run drills. “Better wipe that faraway look off your face before Coach sees it.”

We’ve been back on the ice for all of half an hour and Rhodes and I are already falling into sync with each other. It’s why no matter how badly I’m skating today, Coach’s threat to move me is just that—a threat.

But to move me somewhere else…a new team…

I shake my head, not wanting to think about that.

Miller, a young rookie, slides up next to us. “Has Coach ever even been on a farm before?”

A right-winger who joined the team two years ago, he’s one hell of a player with a promising career ahead of him. Everyone out on this ice right now knows he’s the reason we made it as far as we did last year—thanks to that overtime goal of his—but not everyone likes it. A few of the more veteran players were not happy about him earning a first-line spot.

I chuckle. “Those were my thoughts exactly.”

“Hey, you idiots better not let Heller hear you talking shit about him. He’ll go full Goon and wipe the ice with you.” Lowell, our team captain, speaks low enough so the man in question doesn’t hear as he skates closer to us. “Get those legs moving, boys.”

Out of all the guys on the team, these three are the ones I’m closest with since we spend the most time on the ice together. Plus, they don’t hate me for what happened last year, which is always a bonus.

“Beers tonight?” Rhodes asks after Lowell and Miller skate away.

“Of course,” I tell him, not forgetting our first-practice tradition.

Ice time lasts a little longer than usual and then we’re off to team meetings for another two hours. Somehow, those meetings are almost as exhausting as running drills.

We go over conduct rules and nutrition and all your basic bullshit we should all already know by now. By the time we’re done for the day, I’m wiped and very much looking forward to that beer.

“Wright!” Coach hollers at me just as I’m about to head out.

I’ve been with the Comets long enough to know that means he wants to see me in his office.

I shoulder my bag and head in there, hoping whatever this is won’t take too long. I need food and a fucking nap.

“Shut the door, kid,” he instructs when I walk over the threshold.

I do as he says and take a seat in the chair across from him.

Coach is an older man on the shorter side. His belly is rounded—probably from all the baked goods his wife whips up—and he’s missing a big patch of hair from the back of his head.

But don’t let his small stature and soft features fool you—the man is a beast on the ice.

He’s a Stanley Cup champion and a hell of a scrapper. He can play with the biggest and best of them and holds his own just fine.

“Good summer?” he asks, folding his hands over his stomach.

“Mostly uneventful, thank fuck.”

Aside from all the small inconvenient things that happened, I managed to come out without another arrest and my name stayed out of the headlines for a few weeks.

That’s a win for me.

“Heard your car broke down yesterday and you were stranded. Get that taken care of?”

How the hell does he find these things out so quickly?

“Working on it, Coach.”

“Good.” He nods, eyeing me with the dark brown gaze I swear sees everything. “You good, kid?”

I know what he’s asking.

He’s wondering if I’m ready for this season. If I’ve put all the shit from last year behind me. If we’re going to have a problem again. If I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure we get back in the Finals and we win the Cup. If I’m going to flop during a contract year and make my chances of the Comets offering me a new deal even slimmer.

I need this to be a good year for me, especially after the shitshow from last season.

He knows it as well as I do.

“I’m good, Coach.”

The words sound strong and steady.

But I’m honestly not fucking good.

I skated like ass this morning. Even though Rhodes and I were good, gelling like we always do, I was off with most of the team.

Some of the guys are definitely still pissed at me for taking that penalty that cost us the game. I think deep down they know it was a shit call, but they’re still determined to blame someone for the loss.

That someone just happens to be me.

Coach nods, seeming to buy my response. “All right, kid. Glad to hear.”

He drops his head, focusing his stare on the stack of paperwork in front of him. I stand, taking the hint that I’m dismissed.

“Wright?” Coach calls just as I’m about to walk out the door.

I peer back at him, his attention still on his desk. “Hmm?”

“Maybe keep the distractions to a minimum this season, yeah?”

I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. “Understood, Coach.”

What he’s saying comes through loud and clear: Keep your head down. Focus on the game.

And that’s just what I plan to do.

“Did you hear Colter got a chick pregnant over the break?”

“Wait…another one?”

Rhodes bobs his head. “Yeah, man. That’s two bunnies in the last year, plus the chick from a couple years ago. It was all over the papers.”

I wouldn’t know. I’ve been avoiding them.

Hell, I’ve been avoiding anything that gets me even remotely in trouble.

Tonight is the first time I’ve been in a bar in months, and I’m making sure to keep my eyes peeled for any potential issues.

I only agreed to come because I’ve been gone all summer and—not that I’d admit it to him—I kind of missed Rhodes.

“Kid needs to learn to wrap his shit up or keep it in his pants.”

“That’s what I said!” Rhodes throws his arms up, beer sloshing around in his bottle. He draws the attention of a few women sitting down at the other end of the bar, and I see the spark in their eyes when they realize who we are. “Did he not learn his lesson the first time?”

“Or second, apparently.”

“I guess that’s one way to get a hat trick.” Rhodes winks, and I shake my head at his lame joke. “Guess that means you’re off the hook though. The media is blasting the chick’s story everywhere. She’s talking to anyone who will listen, selling all kinds of information on him.”

“This is why I don’t fuck around with women.” I take a pull from my beer. “They’ll ruin your career.”

He shrugs, picking at the label of his. “Not all of them are so bad.”

“Please tell me you aren’t still hooking up with Brittney.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I know he is.

“Dude!” I glare at him. “We talked about this. Fucking gabbed for hours like girls at that away game.” I shake my head. “You need to break it off with her. She doesn’t give a shit about you. She’s using you.”

“Hey, man, when the heart wants what it wants…”

I give him a disappointed frown, and he just shrugs.

I think she’s a money-hungry bitch looking to ride his coattails, but Rhodes doesn’t see her that way.

He fell for her fast. I think he told me he was going to marry her on the second date, but Brittney wasn’t on the same page. She wanted something casual. No attachments…except her hand to his wallet.

They’ve been doing the friends-with-benefits thing for two years now, and by that I mean Rhodes sits around waiting for her to realize she’s in love with him while she continues to date every idiot out there, only to run back to him when she gets her heart broken.

For some reason I cannot comprehend, he’s willing to wait for her.

A few guys on the team give him shit for it, claiming she must have some magical pussy or something, but I think the poor bastard is just seriously in love with her.

“I don’t want to hear shit from you. At least I’m getting laid frequently.”

“Yeah, you and all the other guys she’s screwing.”

“We’re not…that’s not what we have. I can see other women if I want to,” he argues, but I can see the disappointment in his eyes.

“And I’ll have you know, I’m doing just fine in the getting-laid department, thank you very much.”

“Really? Because you were skating like trash this morning. Trash skating means you’re not relaxed. If you were getting laid, you’d be relaxed.”

“Is that how that works out?”

“Yep.”

All right, fine.

He’s not wrong.

I haven’t been laid in a long time, and I am far from relaxed lately. Not even jerking off this morning could help fix it.

But can I really be blamed? I’m stressed about getting back in the swing of things with the team. About the season. About making sure I’m toeing the line and not fucking up like I did last year. About earning a spot so I can stay with this team I love so much.

He claps me on the back. “I know that face. It’s the face of a sex-deprived man.”

I shrug off his hand with a scowl. “I am not sex-deprived. I’m just…focused on my game.”

At the mention of sex, Harper’s face pops into my head.

I remember the way she looked at me, how her eyes slowly raked over my body. How she kept staring at me when she thought I was focused on the road. The way she looked up at me as we stood on that curb just inches apart. Her lips parted, chest rising and falling in staggered breaths.

Fuck, I should have just kissed her. Should have slid my hands into her hair and pulled her close and kissed her until we were both breathless. Then I should have taken her up to my apartment and thanked her properly for the ride.

I shift on the stool, the longing that’s been dormant stirring to life again.

Rhodes gives me a smug grin at my canned response. “Just face it—you’re deprived.”

I roll my eyes, then signal the bartender for another—and final—beer.

He pops the top off of a local IPA and slides it in front of me…along with a napkin.

There’s a feminine scrawl across it, and before he says anything, I know who it’s from.

“From those two at the end,” the bartender says, tossing his thumb over his shoulder. “I told them you weren’t interested, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Slapshots has become a haven of sorts for the team. The owner is a big fan of the Comets and lets us come here all the time after games. The other patrons tend to leave us alone and let us do our thing, but every now and then there are a few people who don’t understand the unwritten rule and butt into our downtime.

Like tonight.

“Thanks, Rod.”

He gives me a nod before wandering off to take care of another customer.

Rhodes glances down at the women who were checking him out earlier. The minute his eyes land on them, they lean forward, pressing their tits out, grinning at us.

“Well, I found you some action.”

“And wind up like Colter with two baby mamas?” I shake my head. “I’ll pass.”

“Three—he’s up to three now. And why not? They’re hot.”

I shrug. “Just not into it.”

“Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

Rhodes lifts his brows. “Dude, I’ve known you almost half my life now. Don’t play stupid with me. Who is the girl? Did you meet someone this summer? Is that why you’re not taking those very willing girls up on their offer?”

“If you like them so much, why don’t you take them up on their offer?”

He gives me a hard stare.

I sigh, knowing he’s not going to let it go. “There is no girl, Rhodes.”

“If there’s no girl, then walk over there.”

“Not interested.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I shake my head. He snaps it closed again.

I guzzle down another drink of my beer.

“Okay, fine,” Rhodes says after a minute of silence. “If you won’t go talk to them, at least find someone to help with your problem.” He bounces his brows up and down like I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Why are you so worried about what I’m doing—or not doing—with my dick?”

“Because it affects the team, man!” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If you’re out there and you’re not relaxed, you’re not playing well. If you don’t play well, we get fucked again and don’t get the Cup…again.”

I flinch at his words, even though I know it’s nothing personal. Still fucking stings worse than taking a puck to the thigh.

I hold my palm up. “I have a solution right here.”

He smacks my hand down. “You are an NHL all-star defenseman. You do not—under any circumstances—walk your own dog. That’s like a law or something.”

I laugh. “A law, huh?”

“Yep.” He puffs his chest out, doubling down. “It’s blasphemous when you have so many options practically knocking down your door.”

“You’re telling me when Brittney isn’t off doing whomever it is she does”—he narrows his eyes—“you don’t…relax yourself?”

He sighs. “First, my relationship”—I scoff at his use of the word and he throws me a murderous glare—“with Brittney isn’t nearly as dramatic as you make it out to be. We’re more together than we aren’t.”

I don’t know what delusional world he’s living in, but I’ll allow it for now.

“But a few times when we’ve…broken up,” he continues, “it’s not like I’ve been celibate myself.”

Now this is surprising.

“Who?”

He shrugs. “A few different women. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, but who? How? I haven’t seen you go home with anyone in…well, since long before Brittney.”

“Iuseapps.” He tips his drink back, not meeting my eyes.

“Dude, what?”

He huffs, setting his beer back down. “I said, I use apps.”

“What the fuck for?”

Another shrug. “It’s…easier. I’m not exactly the best at picking women up, you know.” He points at the long scar that slashes through his lips and up his cheek. “Not many are clamoring to get with this ugly mug.”

I met Rhodes the summer before he got his scar. We went to the same hockey camp in Minnesota and clicked fast. Back then, he was loud and cocky, but after he took a dirty skate to the face, leaving him with a deep scar after the reconstructive surgery he had to have, he changed. Now, he’s quiet. Some might even say broody. He works harder at blending in than standing out, and I know that has to do with what happened. He thinks it’s all people see.

I think his scar might have to do with why he keeps going back to Brittney. She’s comfortable to him. Safe. She doesn’t care about his scar.

Just his wallet size.

But that’s a whole other thing.

“What do they say when you show up and it’s you?”

“I don’t really think about that in the moment. It’s no different from going home with a bunny, I guess. I’m not there for the conversation, and they don’t want one either.”

I suppose it would be a lot like that. It’s not like I haven’t done it before, taken home a bunny I mean. I just haven’t done it in a long time. When you come into the NHL, your first few years are magical when it comes to women. They all want you for the title, and most of the guys give in to that temptation—myself included.

After a while, it gets old.

But the nights alone get old too.

I’m not in the market for anything serious. I want easy, dirty fun. Something casual to help channel all my extra…frustrations.

Maybe this app thing is the perfect solution to that.

“What app do you use?”

His eyes widen, brows shooting into his dark blond hairline. A slow grin pulls at his lips. “I knew you were sex-deprived.”

“It’s for the team,” I mumble.

Though neither of us believes me.