Page 40 of He Has Pluck

“I told you I’m no puck bunny.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t about to mistake you for that.”

And suddenly, I wonder what I am to him. But this is a clear case of curiosity killing this cat if I ask that loaded question.

In an act of bravery, and something else I can’t identify, I take the shirt and slip it over my head. He helps pull it down over my body, skimming his hands over my nipples, setting off a cascade of reactions and short-circuiting my brain. I reach for my coffee and take a desperate gulp.

He points to the window where the torn shade is at half-mast. “We have a sunrise view.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me onto his lap so that his mouth is positioned conveniently at my ear.

“What did you like best about last night?” he asks.

I put my coffee down before I spill it. “Really? Are we going to do this? A highlight play-by-play of our night together? Is this some kind of sports thing where you’re used to dissecting your performance?”

He laughs. “Now that you mention it…”

I swat his arm resting across my belly and sink down against him. A yawn escapes. There’s probably not enough coffee in the city to keep me awake with only an hour of sleep after a night like we had.

“You’re not tired, are you?” He caresses my shoulder and runs a finger down my arm.

“You’re not?”

“I’m in shape,” he says.

I snort. And then I yawn again and feel the silent laugh rumble his chest under my head. The smile that lifts my mouth is unbidden. He doesn’t say anything else, and his warmth and steady breathing lull me back to sleep.

Chapter Twelve

JASON

I leave Juliette in my messy bed and head to the practice rink early.

I shouldn’t, but I feel great, like I’m high on some miracle drug. Which is true if you call sex a drug and Juliette a miracle.

The instant my skates hit the ice, a few minutes before seven am, I know I’m going to have a great practice. The cold air heightens the alive and alert sensations, the total clarity, the sharper vision I have.

Coach blows the whistle after ten minutes and breaks the team into two sides for a scrimmage. I’m shooting at Finn, and I have Rafe on my line. He takes the faceoff, and we skate around in circles for ten seconds while Coach yells that he’s not taking our line off the ice until we get off a good shot. Rafe gets across the blue line with the puck, and I follow. He sees me and drops the puck exactly where I can hit it in stride.

The quickness of my shot slices the puck through the air at a speed I’d be willing to bet is a personal best.

“Shit,” Tony says as the puck whizzes by him, missing his shoulder by inches. “What the fuck did you eat for breakfast?”

The puck clangs against the goal’s crossbar and ricochets into the net behind Finn. He spins around to give me a hard look.

“What the fuck?” he says. Rafe and O’Rourke and a few of the other guys skate by and tap my pads, thump me on the back.

Skating back to the bench, I see Juliette jogging up the tunnel toward the boards, lifting her camera to her shoulder as if she’s just arriving. As if she’s late. Fuck. Carlos is already on the bench with his camera ahead of her.

We hit the bench, and Tony says, “I wonder where Sullivan is?” It annoys me that he calls her Sullivan, but then I doubt I’d like him calling her Juliette either. I don’t like to hear Tony uttering her name or referencing her in any way. But I know I’m being an unreasonable prick, and I promised to make-nice, so I don’t say anything, letting the idea of him claiming her even as a distant acquaintance simmer inside to no good end.

I ignore his question because I’m not answering to anyone about Juliette. I don’t like secrets, but it’s none of his fucking business.

“I don’t—oh, there she is,” Carlos says. He turns and gives me a questioning look. I have no answer for him either as his stare turns from a question to dismissal. Thank fuck.

The day goes exactly like Coach predicts, and afternoon drills are great. I’m on fire and team is gelling. I even manage to get along with Tony G, and he shows me the social media posts of us joking around. Juliette manages a miracle of splicing and dicing to make us look like bosom buddies.

At the meeting later, Coach tells us the practice tomorrow will be another scrimmage, and the media will be allowed in and we need to bone up on the cheat sheet he hands out to us for answers to dicey questions.

“Of course, you can tailor them to the immediate situation somewhat, but keep your answers as generic as possible. Do not cop to any injury of any kind unless your bone is hanging out or you’re hemorrhaging into a puddle.” He pauses for a few grunts of disgust. “Don’t cop to any dissatisfaction of any kind. Not with the organization, not with me, not with each other and especially not with the media or the fans.”