Page 41 of Puck, Marry, Kill

“Dom killed it. Did you see him with that body check on Paulson? Or the way he broke up Medvedev’s fake out and just yoinked the puck from him like it was nothing?”

“Of course I did. I’m literally right here,” I say, pointing at the seat next to his. We saw the exact same things.

“Do you think we can see the players?”

After games, players have an entire routine to go through. For some, it’s a quick shower and go. For others, it might be an hour-longprocess with sports medicine, cold plunge soaks, and then showering and getting dressed. I don’t know where Dominic falls in that spectrum.

Plus, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for the other players to see me. In the crowd during the game, I blend in and am relatively anonymous. But standing in a fan line for up-close pictures and autographs? They’d recognize me and probably tell Dad that I was here. If I was a good liar, I could say I came to support him. But I’ve never been able to lie without some kind of tell giving me away, and that would lead to more questions. Ones I’m not prepared to answer.

“I don’t think so, honey. It’s late. We can send Dominic a text to thank him again.”

I don’t get the chance to send a politely worded thank-you that Miss Manners would be proud of, though. Before I do, my phone dings.

I have to deal with some shit, but can I come over after? I know it’s late, so it’s okay if not. But I’d like to see you.

He wants to see me?

I try not to squeal like a teenage girl whose crush just sent her aWYD, girl?text. Mostly because Harley is looking at me weirdly. So maybe I did make a noise? Oops! But also, because I’m a full-grown adult who isnotfreaking out over a man wanting to come over after dark.

That’s fine. Let me know when you’re on your way.

I stare at the message, making sure I didn’t misspell anything and that it sounds as nonchalant as I want it to, as opposed to the ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod chaotic energy I actually feel. I add my address and hit send.

“He’s coming over?” Harley asks. He was reading over my shoulder and knows exactly who I just invited to our home. Postgame crash, myass. My odds of getting him to bed just dropped to less than 1 percent, especially hopped up on caffeine and sugar.

“Yes, but not for a bit. You should have time to shower and get to bed first,” I tell him.

“Mooom!” he whines.

I can’t help it, I laugh. “I’m kidding. You can stay up to say thank you in person.” I switch into the mom inflection that I’ve perfected to add, “And then go to bed without argument.”

He’s quick to accept. “Deal.”

On the drive home, Harley rambles about the game, reliving each play in detail, and though I nod along and offer occasional commentary, mostly I’m reminding myself that I am not having sex tonight. Or maybe ever again.

But definitely not tonight.

Too bad my vajayjay doesn’t quite get the memo and is pulsing with a reminder that a little extra attention from a man who kisses like Dominic would be nice. Real nice.

Chapter 15

Dominic

I want to speed-demon rush through my postgame routine and get to Briar’s as soon as possible. But I can’t. On top of the typical media bullshit, I have work to do here. Especially since the fuse I lit inside a particularly troubled defenseman is starting to pop and fizzle in warning. We’re going to have dynamite-level destruction in three, two, one ...

Right on time, Kipson roars at Anderson, “You son of a bitch! You know what you did!”

They are nearly nose to nose and on the cusp of throwing hands, but more shocking than that is Anderson’s unusually grim expression. For a good-time guy, he’s got an impressive “don’t fuck with me” face. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve done a lot of things.”

“Sofia.” Kipson giving his ex-wife’s name breath steals all the air in the locker room.

“Oh, that?Her?” Anderson scoffs. “You’re welcome, man. Better off without that anchor weighing you down, huh? Now you can put your focus where it should be, without the whining and pouting every time you travel for games.” He moves his hand like a mouth talking, right in his ear, his face the picture of annoyance, painting an image ofwhat Kipson and Sofia’s relationship was like. Or at least what Anderson thinks it was like.

Seeming to think that’s explanation enough, Anderson slaps Kipson’s shoulder like they’re buddies again, but Kipson reflexively swats his arm away. “Better off?” he snaps. “She was the only thing keeping me out of hell and thanks to you, she’s gone.”

“Nuh-uh,” Anderson tuts, waving a hand. “Don’t put that on me. You’re the one who fucked up what you had. Though why you’d wantthat, I do not understand.” He shakes his head, confused. “Especially when this is the alternative. I’m just showing you what your life could be.” Anderson pats his own chest like he’s the ultimate example of happiness.

And maybe he thinks he is. But I can see through the shallowness in which he lives his life. I hope others on the team are starting to see through it too.