Page 6 of Cross Check

“Remember the time you sent me a dick pic meant for someone else?” Hudson Hayes, star defenseman and our alternate captain, chimes in. “I’ve never been so disgusted.”

“Millions of women—and men, mind you—would kill for that picture, Huddy Boy. You should be thankful.” Maverick smirks and looks at me. “You’re young, Everett. Don’t lock yourself down your first year in the league. There’s too much fun to be had.”

“All of you are taking this the wrong way. I’m not locking myself down with anyone.” I toss my phone in the stall under my beanie and scrub a hand over my face. “I wanted to send a nice message to say hello. That’s it.”

“Oh.” Maverick frowns. “That’s boring.”

“I’ll help you after the game, Grant,” Hudson offers, and I smile at him.

“Thanks, Hud.”

“Let’s circle back to the dick pics, because I have a way to make a locker room photo sexy.” Ethan stands and puts one of his skates on the chair. He rests a hand on his hip and uses the other to pull on the waistband of his hockey pants. “An above shot, see? Gives you the best angle and makes everything appear longer. Bonus point: It shows off any genital decorations you might have.”

“I am in hell.” Liam Sullivan, our goalie, scowls. “No one gives a shit about what you have decorating your dick, Richardson. They wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway, even with a photo that’s zoomed all the way in.”

“I love when Sully gets fired up.” Maverick giggles. “He’s so grumpy and irritable. Finding the limit before he snaps is the highlight of my day.”

“How exactly do you plan to take a photo when both of your hands are occupied, Ethan?” Riley Mitchell, Hudson’s defensive partner, asks. “One is on your hip, and the other is busy with your pants. Oh. Unless you use the one on your hip to hold your phone.”

“Great question, Mitchy. Thanks for your participation. The hand on the hip is important. It shows confidence, so that leaves you with two options. You can have a friend take it for you. Or you can start a timer, hold your phone in your mouth, and let the camera work its magic. That method also lets you record yourself getting a⁠—”

“Sit your ass down, Richardson,” Coach Saunders barks out, and Ethan practically falls off the chair. He scrambles to bring his skate to the floor and dives into the seat, resting his hands in his lap. I don’t blame him for being petrified. At six feet, six inches with a perpetual grimace on his face, Brody Saunders is menacing as hell. “If I find any trace of your DNA in a place where it’s not supposed to be, you will be very sorry you pissed me off.”

“Right. Yup. Yes sir. Just, ya know. Goofing off. Boys being boys.” Ethan laughs, but it’s laced with nerves. “Go Stars.”

“Get that boys will be boys motto out of your head. That toxic locker room shit doesn’t exist with me. Do I make myself clear?” Coach warns, and when Ethan squeaks in agreement, he turns back to address the locker room. “We’re up against a solid team tonight. The Goldminers won last year’s Stanley Cup, and this will be a test to see where we stand offensively. They win the majority of their face-offs. Their rebounding and pressure at the crease are the best in the league. We have our work cut out for us.”

I should be paying attention, but my mind drifts to the woman I met last night.

Amelia Green.

Pretty sure I grinned the whole walk back to the hotel.

She’s even prettier in person with her long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She’s taller than me, with legs that stretch for miles, and her smile is out of this world.

There’s also this presence about her. I was listening to her talk, but I wasn’t able to focus on what she was saying because I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to exist in the same space as her.

And I get to see her again tonight.

She said she sticks to a no-fraternization policy. Am I allowed to look at her when I skate past Denver’s bench? Could that get her in trouble? Would she even acknowledge me?

“Everett,” Coach snaps, and I blink back to reality. “Care to join us?”

“Sorry.” I give him a sheepish smile. “I’m here.”

“You better be,” he says. “First line tonight is Sullivan, Miller, Hayes, Mitchell, Parker, and Bailey. We had a good rhythm the other night in Milwaukee, so let’s try to keep that momentum going. Any questions?”

Everyone shakes their heads and settles into game mode. Focused, amped up. We have fun in the locker room when we’re joking around and warming up with sewer ball. But when it’s showtime, we all remember why we’re here and what we’re getting paid to do.

The Stars have been one of the worst teams in the league the last five years. After coaching and roster changes, management is sure this is the group of guys that will turn a corner and get some wins for the franchise hanging on by a thread.

I go through my pregame ritual of a sports drink and a handful of Skittles, not sure why I’m so anxious. Two months of being a professional hockey player, and I haven’t so much as had a stomachache.

Tonight is different.

My hands are shaking. I can’t stop bouncing my knee, and there’s a heavy weight sitting on my chest.

“Hey.” Hudson puts a hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”