Page 8 of The Kiss Connection

“What the fuck, bro?” Archer shakes his head, staring at me, waiting for me to explain why I keep screwing up. I overshot the puck past Reid, right to the opposing team.

Twice.

I get a short break on the bench before it’s my turn to switch back onto the ice. Archer follows my line of vision, seeing exactly what I’m seeing.

The girl from the bar. “All this over some girl? Is that why you’re fucking everything up? Too busy thinking about banging that chick? I told you, you need to get laid. If not her, get with a puck bunny, tonight.”

Archer is one hundred percent right. Well, maybe not about the getting laid, but about her being the reason I’m playing shitty. She’s a distraction that I don’t need.

It’s why I always focused on hockey over girls.

Girlfriends cause complications, heartbreaks, distractions.

I don’t need any distractions.

But my concentration is on her, the girl in the stands. She’s sitting right behind the plexiglass, staring at me. Worse yet, she’s wearing a jersey for our team. From where she’s seated, I can’t quite make out the number on the jersey, not that it should matter.

She certainly didn’t give the indication that she knew who I was at Blue Line. I also didn’t come in with the team, but that never stops the puck bunnies. They always make it obvious they’re interested, fawning all over the guys, even those who are married.

I taste bile in my mouth and imagine the back of her jersey has Conrad’s last name, Sinclair. After all, he swiped right on her. Are they dating? They’re probably at least sending sexts, maybe even nudes.

My stomach flops, and it takes everything inside of me not to stare at her. Anger courses through my veins. I’ll bet she’s here to watch him, cheer for him.

It’s fucking disgusting.

The break is long enough to catch my breath, and then I’m climbing right over the wall and back onto the ice. The game is fast-paced. There’s no time to be focusing on some chick who doesn’t give a shit about me.

I need to get my head back in the game. If we’re going to win, it’s not going to be with me staring at the stands.

The next play, I’m chasing down Tobias Rainer who has the puck, and I shove him forcefully into the plexiglass, right in front of her.

Her eyes widened and she startles at the impact.

It’s hard to ignore her.

Even harder to forget those stupid words: Get lost, you sleezy piece of shit.

And she has the nerve to show up at my arena, at my game. I swear if she’s here to fuck Conrad, I’ll end him.

“Get your head screwed back on,” Archer shouts at me, and I ignore him. My gaze is once again on Britney.

Except I know her name isn’t really Britney, it’s Juniper. Which is so much worse. It’d be better if I didn’t know what her name was or what her favorite color was; it’s pink by the way. She also loves dogs, bubble baths, and soccer. That damn profile was hypnotizing, same with her photos.

I can’t keep looking at her. She’s way too enthusiastic, jumping up, screaming with the fans.

“She your girlfriend?” Rainer chuckles, his shoulder knocking into mine as he steals the puck, and shit, I’m chasing him across the ice for it when it slides toward the other side of the ice.

They’d better not fucking score.

I steal one quick glance at Archer, who is once again on the bench and whispering something to Coach.

The buzzer sounds for the period, and we head back into the locker room for a little pep talk, which is mostly Coach yelling at us. In large part, me; I’m the one getting scolded like a child for not having my head in the game.

I can’t even argue with him, not that I would, because he’s right. I’m distracted. Archer knocks my shoulder while we’re seated on the bench.

“Next period will be better. I’m sure of it.” He’s ever the optimist.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding, knowing it can’t get much worse. We’re losing, and while it’s not entirely my fault, I am in part to blame.