Page 27 of Puck, Marry, Kill

“Sorry!” I rush to say, dropping my gaze to stare at the toes of my muck boots. There’s a glob of mud already drying on the left one. “I usually only see animals naked, not men. I mean, people. I mean ...”

“It’s okay, Briar. I don’t mind if you look at me,” he says, his voice low and rough, like a beard across the inside of my thighs, and just as arousing.

Slowly, I let my eyes climb his legs, linger for a heartbeat on the ridge I can see in his jeans, and then back up to his bare chest. I’m not brave enough to meet his gaze. But I watch rapt as he drops his hands to his waist, unbuttons his jeans, and then unzips them. As he starts to shove them down, I finally come to my senses and whirl around, giving him my back. “Let me know if you need another towel or anything. I can go grab it for you.”

I turn my eyes to the ceiling, irritated with myself. Yes, Dominic is hotter than Hades on a summer day. But I’m not doing that. Not doinghim. Sure, sometimes I’d like a dick with a pulse, and not just a pulse mode, but I need my life to be as unmessy as possible. And if there’s one thing Dominic Lee is, it’s messy.

Chapter 9

Dominic

“It’s starting to feel cold in here,” the announcer booms over the sound system, and the crowd starts to cheer. “Entering the arena, welcome the ...Blizzard!”

We hit the ice one right after another, immediately skating in loops and swirl patterns around our half of the ice to warm up. It’s a preseason game, but the routine is the same every time. Athletes thrive on routine—it helps balance out the chaos of the game itself. So everything should be normal.

Except I’m wearing a fucking baby-blue jersey and the team around me isn’t family the way the Hawks have always been. They’re a bunch of dipshits who act like life is a frat party.

“Ready for this?” I ask Kipson as I stretch beside him.

“Born fucking ready.”

Liar. He is not ready in the slightest. His eyes are jumping all over the place, he’s bouncy as hell, and I don’t think he pissed before we hit the ice, which means he’s starting at a hydration deficit. Or he’s going to piss his pants.

I’ve been watching him at practices. I’ve been watching everyone, plus spending all my free time watching old games to get a better feel for each and every Blizzard player. If this is gonna be my temporary home, I refuse to let them take me down.

Not that these guys could do anything in a blaze of glory. It’d be more like a weak-assed puff of YouTube infamy and fuckup memes,I think bitterly.

That’s not fair and you know it.

Internally, I sigh at my own woe-is-me bullshit. Truth be told, I wish I could write this whole team off as lost causes, but despite me not liking them personally, most of the guys are solid on the ice. That’s what got them to the Finals last year.

Except Kipson.

He used to be one of the stars of their highlight reels, but now, he really is their weak link. But my observations have revealed more about him than he would probably suspect, and tonight, in a preseason game where it doesn’t necessarily count, is the time to test my theory.

I skate up to him until we’re nearly chest to chest. “Born ready or not, get your shit together so we don’t lose this fucking game because you’re butthurt.”

“The hell’d you say to me?” he snarls, pushing me in an attempt to put inches between us.

That’s what I’m looking for—that fire, that anger, that zeroed-in focus. It’d be better if he was angry against our opponents, but giving him fuck-you energy against me might work too.

I don’t relent. If anything, I lean back in even closer. “You heard me. All that pain, all that anger, all that emptiness you’re feeling?” I spit the words at him, watching his eyes narrow as each one hits its intended bull’s-eye. “Take it out on the ice. Take it out on those assholes that’re gonna be gunning for you because they know you’re fucked in the head. Show them that the fucked-up version of you is scarier than the lovesick asshole you used to be.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Lee.” It’s a vow he means wholeheartedly.

“Maybe later,” I reply with a cocky smirk, inviting him to try. “For now, let’s win this damn game.”

“Fuck you.”

“Aw, love you, too, man.” I skate away backward, holding up my finger and thumb in a tiny heart shape.

Hard truths followed by annoying bullshit. It’s not exactly rocket science, but it’s surprisingly effective on a testosterone-addled mind, resulting in anger that’s particularly useful in a physically demanding sport.

Taking my place on the left side of the ice, Anderson whistles at me from his spot in the net. When I glance back, he asks, “You got a death wish I need to know about?”

“We’ll see,” I answer before putting my own focus solidly where it needs to be ... the drop of the puck, and the incoming attack from the Vortex’s center.

Midway through the second period, I’m perched on the bench but my body is reacting to every movement on the ice as if I’m the one out there.