Stand and Defend (Lakes Hockey Series Book 4)

We’re about thirty minutes from landing in Arizona, and I’ve been watching game footage for the last two hours, hunched over my tray table with a tablet and phone, comparing two games playing on each device. It’s become my new process while we fly. First, I go through our team’s performance, then our opponent’s so I can pick out any weak spots I didn’t see before, and finally, I wrap up with footage from my favorite players so I can improve my personal game.

I spoke to the coaches about switching around one of the lineups earlier this week. We have two players who aren’t in sync. They can’t read each other, but there are other guys we can switch them with to mitigate the problem. I gave them a solution, but they weren’t having it. Pissed me off and put me in a bad mood.

I’ve been focused on this game, but whenever I’m not thinking about the team, my thoughts are on her. Before I left for Arizona, I made Jordan promise she would wait to get her things from her old condo until I got home. I’m hoping she keeps her word. I have seen little of her since we ate dinner together a couple nights ago. She’s been focused on work, which she’ll be doing remotely for now. I instructed her how to use the VPN so her location isn’t traceable on her work laptop.

She’s welcome to raid my closet if she needs anything to sleep in for the time being. I suppose I could ask Raquel to pick her up some clothes, but that feels like crossing a boundary. She’s a grown woman. I’m giving her a place to crash and helping her get some shit from her ex. I don’t have to take care of her every need. That’s not my job.

As if she knows I’m thinking about her, a notification pops up at the top of my screen. Since I’ve left home, my heart has been in my chest every time she texts me. My mind goes to the worst-case scenario. I gotta deal with Bryan so I’m not getting a hit of adrenaline with each ding of my phone.

Jordan: Where’s your step stool?

Me: Why?

Jordan: I can’t reach the coffee beans.

I smile, picturing her up on her tippy toes, stretching for something out of reach, making her tits look even perkier.

Me: Garage wall, on the right.

A minute-and-a-half passes, and I don’t hear back. I open my security camera app to watch her, simply to make sure she’s found it. At least, that’s what I tell myself when the screen loads. Fuck me. Her blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail and she’s wearing the yoga pants from the other day, but this time she’s ditched the track jacket for a sports bra. Before I get a good look, she marches into the pantry. After a few seconds, she returns with a bag of coffee beans. I take in her curves. She’s not toned, her midriff is supple and sexy. My fist flexes, wanting to dig my fingers into her softness. She picks up her phone to text me back, and I feel like an asshole for watching her like this.

Jordan: Thanks!

This is where I’m supposed to go back to my videos of hockey games. Leave the text messaging and surveillance apps and focus on my responsibilities as a captain, but I no longer have control over my lizard brain as my fingers fly over the touchscreen keyboard.

Me: How do you take your coffee anyway?

Jordan: Same way I take my men.

Down your throat?

Me: Oh?

Jordan: Ground up and in the freezer.

Me: Bullshit. You’ve never frozen coffee in your life.

Jordan: But I have ground it up . . .

Me: Remind me to never be an asshole to you.

Jordan: You’re already an asshole. Besides, you’re supposed to be practicing.

I switch back to the surveillance app, I’m an asshole, after all, and observe her smiling and leaning against the wall next to the built-in coffee system. She’s a vision in lime and black spandex.

Me: I took the last chocolate protein bar. Told Jonesy to fuck off when he asked to trade for peanut butter.

It looks like she’s laughing, and I smile.

Jordan: Sounds like you’re going to make a full recovery.

Me: Thanks doc.

Jordan: You’re welcome.

The conversation is over. Let it go.

Me: Is there anything you need before I get back?

Jordan: I think I can manage on my own until Sunday.

Me: You really are low maintenance, huh?

Jordan: More like I handle my own maintenance.

I chuckle.

Me: Can I watch?

Jordan: You’re still not my type.

Me: I’m everyone’s type.

Jordan: After the game you might want to consider finding a woman to help take the edge off your testosterone before you fly home.

The smile on my face fades. Shit. I’m flirting with her. I have four women I could hook up with in Arizona, plus an inbox full of DMs looking for a chance, but the thought of rando-sex doesn’t excite me. I’d see a doctor about it except . . . I’m half hard. It’s not an equipment issue, it’s a Jordan issue. I gotta nip this in the bud, or I’ll never get laid again.

Me: I’ll be sure to find some women to keep me occupied tonight. Don’t worry.

I resist looking back at the cameras to see her expression. Either she’ll smile and I’ll feel dejected or she’ll frown and I’ll feel like a jerk.

Jordan: Atta boy.

Jordan: Good luck tonight!

Me: Thanks.

On the ice, all my problems disappear. This is where things make sense. My objective is clear: put the three-inch black rubber puck into the net on the other side of the arena. Piece of cake.

Arizona is playing well, but we’re holding our own. Though it wouldn’t be so neck and neck if they tried the lineup switch I suggested. When my shift is over and I come off the ice, I practically fall onto the bench. It’s not standard height. Some arenas purposely lower their away team benches. When you sit lower, the lactic acid builds up in your knees and it’s harder to recover after a shift. I make a mental note for the boys to hit the bikes extra hard tonight before they hit the bars.

I look up in time to see Matthew Laasko, our left winger, get checked into the boards in front of us.

Barrett leans over and growls, “What the fuck is up with Jorg?”

Arizona’s enforcer, Jorgensen, has been gunning it for Matty all night. I threw my arm out at one of the refs earlier, trying to make sure they keep an eye on those hits. They’re out of regulation and over-the-top.

I shake my head. “No clue. Think I should step in?”

Barrett narrows his eyes at the asshole in question. “Let Broderick take it.”

Nah, I’ll take him. Broderick has been slowly replacing me as the new enforcer on the team, but I’m taller and am better matched for Jorgenson. Jordan said I needed to work off that testosterone. Fucking up that guy’s face sounds better than taking a bunny back to my hotel room. I already warned the officials once.

We’re up 3-2. I anticipate a tight win tonight, but I’m not saying a word for fear of jinxing it. There’s always a little superstition during games. After a few more pulls from my water bottle, I stand, ready to swing a leg over the boards. Broderick’s shift is up, and he starts back in.

Barrett reads my mind and huffs. “Go easy on him.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, sweat raining down my face as I jump back on the ice.

Like I knew he would, he aims for Matty again but doesn’t get far. I drop gloves and jump in his face. Grabbing his sweater, we swing around in a circle like we’re performing some ice-skating duet. He tries to fake a drop to the ice.

“You fucking pussy.” I pant out a laugh. “No, we’re not done yet.”

Cutting my skates into the ice, I yank him up and throw my elbow into the soft spot where his pads don’t cover. He leans, and I get a clear shot at his helmet, knocking it off and raising my shoulder to hurl my fist into the side of his face.

“Fuck you, Teller!”

He’s gripping the nape of my neck and grabs a handful of hair.

“Harder,” I grit out.

“You would like that, you son of a bitch.” He cracks me in the jaw, and I shove him against the boards.

His head bounces off the plexiglass when my knuckles connect with his skull—bet that one rattled his teeth. Not a second later, the linesmen are grabbing me under my armpits and hauling me back. The asshole spits blood at me, and I lunge for him, getting in one more shot before they throw us in the sin bin.

The ref escorts me to the penalty box, and I politely remind him I gave fair warning earlier; his checks were not regulation. I flop onto the short bench and smile, folding my arms behind my head and leaning back. “Ahhh, feels good to be home, boys!” I don’t get a grin out of the linesman or the penalty box attendant. Tough crowd. Whatever, fuck all of ’em.

When I look up, Jorgensen is glaring at me from the opposing penalty box, and I wink back with a smile.

See? I can still be an asshole.

Matty Laasko is a passive dude until he’s not. There was no reason for Jorgensen to go after him. Those hits were unprovoked—even Barrett had had enough of that shit, and he’s not one for fights. Nothing pisses me off more than watching someone get attacked by some dickbag, simply to exert control. I intervened because I was defending Laasko . . . but as soon as I knocked his helmet off, all I could picture was Bryan Davenport’s face.