Page 50 of Lucky Puck

“We’re having a celebration in the locker room for you—your recent nuptials. There’s champagne. The good stuff.” His grin is tentative as his gaze pings between me and Doc Scully.

“I’ll have to beg off,” Coach says as if he were invited.

“No worries,” I say. “I know how happy for me you are deep down.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t lose that sense of humor, Holden.” He mutters half under his breath something like I might need it. Fuck.

I can’t lose playing time, not for two weeks. The team will lose momentum going into the second half of the season and the run to the playoffs.

“Sorry, Sabien.” Doc shakes his head as he pulls his office door closed behind him. “No alcohol for Brody. We need to get to the Imaging Center for his CT scan now. Stay healthy.” Doc keeps moving down the hall, but I stay behind for a quick word with Sabien.

“They’re listing me as a game-time decision.”

“Shit. A CT scan, eh?”

“It’ll be fine.”

He pauses, and for a fraction, worry lines crease his forehead before he winks. “No worries. You’ll bounce back whichever way it goes. We need to keep you healthy. If you can’t play, I’ll pick up the slack.” He grins.

I smack him in the arm, feeling the smile I’m wearing. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Call me later. And don’t forget to arrange tickets for Bianca so she can sit with the WAGS.”

I finally get home after three, courtesy of a ride with Doc, where he went on about brain injuries, and I learned a few things. In spite of that, I’m still determined to play hockey for as long as I can before I drop.

Also, if I ever have children, I’ll never let them play contact sports.

Turning my phone back on, I see the multiple texts from Brooks outlining her plans. Scrolling through, I walk into the kitchen, grab a sports drink, and head to the island. The upshot of her messages is that she’s coming over at four. And by coming over, I know she means moving in.

My gut does a forward roll, and I sit before it decides to do a cartwheel and knocks me on my ass. Not bothering to return her texts, I call the ticket office. I’ll need to arrange for tickets for both my sister and Brooks. Which means they’ll be sitting together. The idea makes me shudder.

I hear muffled music coming from my roommate’s bedroom. Ax—Axton Belgrade, fellow rookie and a defenseman for the Whalers—is a fun guy for a roommate, a fellow free-wheeling bachelor. Of course, he’s already home because he didn’t need to stay for the concussion protocol exam and a CT scan.

Shit. I’m not sure what Ax is going to think of Brooks moving in, but I’m pretty certain she’s not going to relish having Ax for a roommate. I’m not sure she’s thrilled about having me for a roommate when it comes down to it.

But then I knew this fake marriage situation would be less than ideal.

My apartment’s buzzer sounds, and it’s Brooks. I let her up. It’s too late to worry about the consequences now, and I go to the door and open it as she steps off the elevator into my penthouse lobby.

I pick up some of her things littering a good part of my private elevator lobby. “Welcome… “ I was going to say home, but think better of it. Is this really her home? No. She’s a guest for a few weeks, as agreed. The music from Ax’s room gets louder, like he’s turned it up for his favorite song—Imagine Dragons’ Believer.

“Thanks,” she grits out the words from under the weight of her luggage. I’m carrying three boxes. I told her to leave most of her things in her apartment.

Ax chooses this moment to emerge from his room and saunter down the hall in our direction. Luckily, he’s fully clothed.

“Hey there,” he grins, hand in his pockets.

“You never told me you had a roommate,” she says to me.

“This is Ax⁠—”

“I know who Axton Belgrade is.” She lowers her luggage to the floor cautiously as if it’s breakable, and I’m impressed with her strength and control. Then she beams a smile at Ax and puts out a hand to shake his.

Axbell—that’s what we call him around the rink because he’s just up from the farm team, and it’s tradition to give the new guys a crazy-ass nickname. I guess I was immune because I skipped the farm team routine and headed straight to the first line without stopping at go—Monopoly was my favorite game growing up when I wasn’t skating. That and playing pranks on my brothers kept me busy.

“Nice to meet you, er…”

“For the record, this is my wife. You know her as Bianca Brooks.”