Page 23 of Puck Fest
“Or what?” Henderson grins like he wants a reaction. “Gonna get yourself suspended again?”
“Try me and find out.”
My hands aren’t on him. I’m not touching him. I’m just standing between him and Tate, protecting my teammate.
He looks at me for a long second, decides it’s not worth it, and skates away.
Tate nods at me through his mask. No words are needed.
The ref skates over. “Keep it clean, Masterson.”
“Always do, ref.”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe that for a second, but he doesn’t call anything. Probably because I didn’t actually do anything except stand there. That should make Noah happy.
I skate back to the bench and my eyes dart over to the tunnel entrance. My breath hitches when I spot Noah standing against the wall looking hot as fuck in a navy blue suit, jaw set, eyes already on me.
PR guys don’t usually come down during games. They stay upstairs in the press box or in their offices. But there he is. Standing in the shadows where most people wouldn’t notice him, but I do.
When I look at him, he doesn’t turn away. He just stares at me with those deep dark eyes that turn my insides molten. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of my teammates, Ryan Keating, watching us, too.
I pull my gaze away after a minute that isn’t nearly long enough because knowing my teammates, they’ll jump all over it if they catch me eye-fucking the coach’s son when he’s supposed to be keeping me in line. And the fact that Keating saw means he’s gonna be the first to bring it up.
I try to focus on the game. We score again in the third period. I get the assist and pass it to Jack, who buries it in Colorado’s net. The arena erupts. I skate back to the bench, a smile stretched across my lips. When I glance at the tunnel, Noah’s gone.
We beat Colorado 4-2. I finish with one assist and two minutes in the box for slashing someone who had it coming.
And I can’t lie. It felt fucking awesome.
In the locker room afterward, everyone’s relaxed, talking loud and laughing louder. Good wins do that. Coach steps in the center of the room and gives his speech.
“Good win. Solid effort. Masterson, welcome back. Two penalty minutes.” He almost smiles. “Let’s keep it there.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He leaves, and the room relaxes even more. Guys start stripping off gear, heading for the showers, talking about where we’re getting food after.
“Two minutes!” Jack announces loud enough for everyone to hear. “Has to be a personal record for Masterson.”
I chuckle. “What can I say? I’m a changed man.”
“Saw you were almost ready to throw down with Henderson in the second period,” Cam calls out from across the room. “So don’t bullshit us with this reformed Masterson crap.”
“I didn’t throw down,” I say with an eye roll.
“Yeah, but you wanted to,” Tate says with a grin. “Admit it.”
“It woulda felt good.” I shrug. “But I let it go. Wanting and doing are different things. Someone smart told me that.”
“Someone smart.” Carter laughs. “Seems like the PR guy’s really getting through to you, huh?”
Across the locker room, Riley Collins is changing in silence, head down. He played five minutes tonight on the third pairing — solid, careful, nothing flashy. Tate catches my eye and nods toward Riley, eyebrows lifted. The kid's been quiet for weeks, and Tate's been trying to figure out why. I've seen him try. Riley deflects every time.
I make a mental note to swing by his stall after the showers. Sometimes guys just need someone to ask if they're okay.
Then Keating drops into the stall next to mine and the moment passes.
My spine stiffens. Fuck, here it comes. I keep focus on my bag because Keating has a nasty habit of picking up on shit nobody wants to admit to. He’s not as much of a dick as he used to be but he still likes to stir the pot every once in a while.
