We’re dragging tonight.

We all know it.

The crowd knows it, and, since we’re playing in Toronto, the crowd is eating up every lousy play we make.

Coach Hall knows it.

He fires into us before the third period, and none of us are immune.

“You all trying to lose?” he bellows, a formidable voice in a not-quite formidable body. His face is red, his hands jab at the air as though he wishes it was our eyes, and he’s been reaching for the crescendo for the last five minutes. “Beaumont, if I have to fucking tell you one more time to not go after their center, I will literally shove you into the penalty box myself. The guy’s a pussy and he cries wolf if you touch him—don’t fucking touch him!”

Andre’s head hangs as he stares down at the cement between his skates. I don’t blame him—Toronto’s center is a pussy, and the minute he sees Beaumont coming, the douchebag is already curling up in the fetal position and calling foul play.

“Hunt!”

I don’t jump at the sound of my name, though my balls threaten to pull a duck-and-run into my body for protection.

“Yeah, Coach?”

“Where the hell is your head tonight?” Coach growls, prowling the space in front of us like a caged lion. “You leave your shit back in Boston. Are you trying to miss every fucking shot tonight?”

He’s right that my head isn’t in the game.

It hasn’t been in the game for days now, not since I opened up to Gwen and tore at all my old wounds. It wasn’t pity that she’d looked at me with. No, Gwen decimated me with one knowing glance, as though she understood fully what I’d been through as a kid.

No one did.

Except for Dave, and I was still paying my debt to him for that even now.

“I’ll get my head out of my ass, Coach.”

It’s a promise I keep.

I know what’s riding on this game—the ever-hanging threat that if I don’t play hard enough, if I don’t play smart enough, I’ll find myself back on the farm team, playing on a minor league level.

I’m as well-known for my ability to pull hat tricks out of my magic hat as I am for bringing my hat trick, or so that’s what ESPN called it a few months ago.

Agility.

Dogged determination.

Unparalleled skill.

The “hat trick,” according to ESPN.

Tonight, I’m relying on my bullheaded focus and skill because the agility is AWOL.

My teeth crash together, despite my mouthpiece, as I’m bulldozed into the boards, my helmet clipping against the Plexiglas.

Fuck.

Vision blurring from the force of impact, I meet the wide-eyed gaze of a little kid. He’s wearing a Toronto jersey and a matching Maple Leafs ball cap. His hands dive into a monster-sized bowl of popcorn.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a massive two-hundred-fifty-pound asshole practically humping my back as we both fight for ownership of the puck.

“Having a hard time today?” Toronto’s D-man grunts behind me.

I eye the puck, driving for it. “You still jerking off to my picture at night, Tompson?”

“Fuck you.”

“I already do every night in your dreams.”

I barely allow myself a sigh of relief as I manage to shoot a pass to Carter. I can breathe when the game is over—or when I’m dead.

Carter scores, tying up the score at 2-2.

The rest of the period is a matter of getting the job done.

The Air Canada Centre isn’t our house, but by the time we wrap up with another goal at .15 seconds left in the game (assisted by me), we treat it like it is.

Our house, our rules, our win.

Not that Coach praises our turn-around post-game. He barks at the media—clearly still ticked off that we dangled our cocks for two periods instead of playing real hockey—and has us packed up and on our way to the airport hotel within the hour.

Across the aisle in the bus, Harrison props up one arm on the back of the seat in front of him. “I want a steak, a call with Charlie, and my bed—not necessarily in that order.”

Carter, seated in the row ahead of The Mountain, twists around to look at us. “I’m feelin’ the need to drop cash on the best steak this city has to offer.”

Harrison trades a side-eye glance with me, then says to our captain, “You owe me from last time. I fed your ass and paid your bill. Since I don’t sleep with you, I’m feeling the need to collect on steak tonight.”

“Done.” Carter holds up his phone. “Let Sir Google tell us where to go, and I’ll cover you, princess. Think of it as your Christmas gift.”

“Since when did Santa turn into a slow-talkin’ Texan?”

As the two of them bicker like old ladies and make plans to feast like kings, I tap my phone.

A text is waiting for me from Gwen.

The woman is burrowing under my skin, more than she ever has before. I don’t mind it. I crave the contact with her in a way I’ve never craved anything in my life.

You should have kissed her the other night, you dumbass.

I should have.

Fear had stopped me.

Fear that she’d wake up and realize she’s way better off without a kid from Southie. Better off without the sort of baggage I carry around behind the good humor and go-lucky attitude.

Lately, I haven’t been feeling like that Marshall Hunt—the playboy version of myself.

I swipe my thumb across the glass phone screen, hungrily seeking out the text from a woman who pushes for the real me, and never shies away when he appears darker, sharper than the playboy mirage.

Awesome game! You had me at the edge of my seat. Xoxo

I stare hard at those X’s and O’s, wondering if she’s popped them in just to be friendly.

Thought Coach was gonna blow a gasket, I type back.

Seconds later, my phone vibrates against my thigh. He just can’t handle your greatness.

Pretty sure that was not what Coach Hall was thinking tonight.

I lean into the aisle, and sure enough, Coach is seated at the front of the bus, peering back at the lot of us with a pissed-off expression on his face. I wouldn’t put it past him to be planning all the ways he plans to torture us during our next practice.

Next time you see him, do me a favor and don’t tell him that. For me. Xoxo

“You blowin’ kisses at someone, Hunt?”

Fuck.

Beaumont shoves me over on the bench, so that my hip comes into contact with the side of the bus. He folds his hands over his stomach, long legs stretched out into the aisle.

“Do you have a death wish?” I grunt, turning my phone over on my thigh. “Nothing good ever comes from snooping.”

Beaumont won’t be distracted. “Who were you talking to?”

“Your wifer.”

His mouth curls into a smirk. “Don’t pull a Henri Bordeaux, man. Also, if you were talking to Zoe, I hope you understand that I’d have to castrate you.”

“Is that an offer?”

He dips his head. “A promise.”

“Well, in that case then . . .”

“Asshole.” With a punch to my arm, Andre laughs. “Really, though, you talking to Gwen?”

“Is that a problem?”

My phone vibrates, and I’m desperate to see what she says.

“Nah.” Beaumont shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not a problem. Just wondering how it’s all going. Any complaints?”

Other than the fact that I haven’t kissed her yet?

Not a one.

“We’re testing the waters,” I finally answer, taking the safe route.

“You haven’t kissed her yet?”

Christ. Am I that easy to read? I rake my fingers through my hair. “We’re . . . getting there.”

“I’d say to let me know how it goes, but I’m sure I’ll hear it through the grapevine, otherwise known as my fiancée.”

I laugh because it seems expected of me, but the damn bastard doesn’t move the rest of the way back to the hotel. Each time I try to sneak a peek at my phone, Beaumont starts up conversation again.

Is it wrong that I want to muffle him? The man doesn’t talk to any of us for a straight year, and the love of one woman turns him into Chatty Kathy 2.0.

When we clamber off the bus a short time later, I can’t grab my duffel quick enough. Harrison waves at me, shouting that he’s going to grab steak and to not wait up. The Mountain and I usually camp out as roommates together when we’re on the road.

I’m not above hoping Harrison goes to an all-you-can-eat steak buffet.

I wait until I’m out of the elevator and on my floor to call Gwen.

She answers on the second ring, her voice breathy and feminine. “Hello?”

I angle the door to my hotel room open with a shuffle of my keys and a shoulder against the wood. “You go running?” I ask, flicking on the lights and setting my bag down in the entryway.

“What?” The word is a squeak, and I grin at my reflection as I start stripping off the suit we’re forced to wear at away games.

The tie is the first to go, followed by the jacket. I toss both over a chair.

“You sound wicked out of breath.” I toe off my shoes and then drop my slacks, adding them to the growing pile on the chair. “Were you working out?”

There’s a pause, and then some shuffling. “I . . . um, did you see my text?”

My shirt is the next to go. “Not yet. Beaumont was hovering like a stage-five clinger. What did you say?”

“Ah . . .”

At her hesitancy, alarm bells go off in my head. “Hold on.”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I sit on the edge of my bed and open my messages. Two taps later and my cock is as hard as a fucking rock.

“Gwen?”

A pause. Then, “Yes, Marshall?”

I swallow, hard. My gaze lifts to the mirror. I’m a gym rat, something I’ve never really given much thought to besides the obvious: working out is my escape. It’s an extension of releasing my emotions into physical activity. On a professional level, it’s a necessary fact of life if I want to stay at the top of my game on the ice.

Right now, I’d kill to see Gwen’s reaction to my almost-naked body.

I try to see myself through her eyes—big biceps, muscular thighs, broad triceps, ridged abs. Tattoos line my arms, down to my wrists. My cock thrusts up, the crown peeking out above the waistband of my black briefs. Eyes squeezing shut, I force my free hand to the bed, even though I’m dying to give myself a little relief.

“Are you still thinking of me?” I rasp, wishing that she were here in this hotel room with me. Next time, I tell myself.

“I probably shouldn’t have sent that,” Gwen says. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You miss me.”

“Well, yes.”

My hand lands on my thigh because I’m a glutton for punishment. I wish it were her hand. “How many cocktails did you have before you sent that text?”

“One,” she whispers. “Liquid courage while I watched your game at home.”

One cocktail and the woman is bold enough to tell me that she wants to feel me between her legs sometime in the next half-century. I don’t know whether to laugh at her forwardness that’s so typically Gwen, or to groan because I’m hundreds of miles away from even fulfilling that fantasy.

In that moment, I make a decision. It’s as bold as her text, bolder still, but the ache in my balls and that breathy note in her voice isn’t doing me any favors. Harrison is gone for at least another few hours, definitely enough time to . . .

“End the call, honey.”

“What?”

“I’m going to video chat you. End the call.”

Her voice hits a high note. “Is that a good idea?”

“It’s the best damn idea I’ve ever had.”

She ends the call.

I shove my briefs down the length of my legs. With steady fingers, I tap an app on my phone and pull up Gwen’s contact info. My own hesitation spans mere seconds—is this the right move? Does sexting ruin everything I’ve been working toward with her?

In the next second, I realize that I don’t care.

Not right now, when my hard-on is desperate for her touch.

Not right now, when I’m dying to see her stroke the hot folds between her legs.

I need this.

I tap CALL and wait. And wait. And then the screen is a mash-up of muted colors and red hair.

And skin.

Holy hell, she’s not wearing a shirt.

“That’s a greeting,” I rasp, thanking God when my voice doesn’t crack like a teenage boy’s.

“I”—the camera shifts upward to show her beautiful face—“I didn’t realize the angle I was holding the phone.”

Just like that, her wry tone eases my nerves. “Sure you didn’t.” Her red hair drapes over one shoulder, shielding all the good things from view. “Do you have a mirror?”

Her lips part. “Yeah, why?”

Go big or go home.

In more relevant terms, get naked or get off the phone.

I tap the little camera-reversal icon, waiting for the phone’s recalibration.

Her gasp coincides with all of me showing up on her screen. “Oh.”

Grinning, I say, “Yeah, oh. I want to see you, Gwen. I’ve been waiting for years to see you. I can’t say that I’m all too pleased that this is the way we’re gonna break down this barrier, but I’ll take it.”

“Hold on.”

Her phone shimmies and shakes as she puts it down—on the bed, maybe? There’s the sound of something being dragged across the floor, a graphic four-letter curse that makes me grin, and then I’m looking at her face again.

Then it’s not just her face.

It’s all of her: her painted toenails, her trim ankles, her slim thighs, her hand cupping between her thighs, a narrow waist, and heavy breasts. Her red hair hangs loose, untucked this time around, framing her face and dragging my attention up to her nervous expression.

“We don’t have to do this.” I’ll die from blue balls if we don’t, but I’m not down for this unless we both want it. “Change the camera around, honey. Let me see your face. It was a stupid idea. We’ll forget about it, all right?”

“Tell me what to do.”

My cock twitches at the softly issued command.

“You sure about this?”

“I want you, Marshall.” Her legs spread wide and my mouth goes dry. “Now tell me what to do.”

There’s a good chance I’ll die today. Forget the blue balls—I’ll be gone long before that happens. Holy hell, I need water.

No, I just need her.

“Tuck your hair behind your ears.”

She laughs, a touch awkwardly. “That’s where you want to start?”

“I want to make sure I can see your beautiful face the entire time. Humor me.”

Holding the phone with one hand, she does as I ask with the other. She bites her lower lip, teasing me from hundreds of miles away. “Next?”

Did I ever think her nervous? Clearly, I’m the only one with a rock in my throat that I can’t swallow down, no matter how hard I try.

I draw in a deep breath. “I want to know how heavy your tits are, honey. Yeah, cover them just like that. Tweak your nipple for me, yeah, that’s a good girl . . .”

With her hand on her breast, her core is left unshielded.

And I want. I want so bad that I’m almost unaware of my hand gripping the base of my cock until I’m slowly pumping up and down, twisting my palm at the head, hard, just the way I like it.

“You’re . . . bigger than I expected.”

My gaze flits from her fingers to her face in the small screen. “What’d you expect?”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “A pretty cock,” she whispers, licking her lips, “to match your pretty face.”

If I were there with her now, I’d have her flat on her back for that comment. “You know how I feel about being called pretty.”

With one last squeeze of her breast, Gwen slips her hand down her stomach and then skirts to the side, landing on her inner thigh and taking my heart right along with her. “What are you going to do about it?” It’s a blatant taunt. “You’re so very far away, Marshall.”

For that comment, I’d have her on her back and my tongue driving into the very center of her.

Since that’s not an option . . . “Touch your clit, Gwen. Now.”

She flutters her lashes. “Is that your punishment? Making me feel good?”

Christ, she’s feisty when she’s horny.

I love it.

“You should be thankful I don’t actually have any chains in my basement for you.”

She throws me off course with her next question: “How badly do you want me to touch myself?”

“Bad.”

“Bad enough that you’ll throw out your rule about no kissing? We can skip everything else when you get back, Marshall, but I want my first kiss from you. I want to stop fantasizing about all the different ways you might taste and finally know for myself. I want that connection with you.”

Her words are as much a turn-on to my body as they are to my heart. “The kiss is yours,” I say, my gaze fixed on her flushed face. “When I see you, you’ll have it.”

She answers by dragging one foot up onto the bed, leaning onto her elbow, completely exposing herself to the mirror, and to me, before touching her clit, just as I’d asked.

I’m not prepared for the eroticism of the sight.

I’m not prepared for the way my tight strokes on my cock pick up speed.

I’m not prepared for the demands that spill from my mouth—I’ve always been dominant in the bedroom, but I’ve never been much of a dirty-talker. Hell, I generally leave the talking at the door.

But the sight of Gwen circling her clit with two fingers apparently seizes that side of me from the depths of my soul and yanks the poor bastard into the real world.

“God, yes,” I growl, noting the way her toes curl and the camera shakes, ever so slightly. “Taste yourself, Gwen. Tell me what you taste like.”

Her breathing is quick and loud, even over the chat line.

I don’t have to ask twice.

She sinks those two fingers into her heat, pumping once, before lifting them to her mouth for a single swipe of her tongue.

I groan, loudly, curses diving off my tongue. “Tell me, honey.”

“Sweet,” she says softly. “I taste sweet.”

“Good to know. The minute I see you, I plan to discover that for myself.”

My words must strike a chord of want in her because those two sweet fingers of hers return to her core, slipping inside and driving me insane. I never would have thought six years ago that my first sexual encounter with Gwen James would take place in a hotel room with her in a different country.

Then again, I never would have thought that just the sight of her, with my imagination filling in all of the missing blanks, would be enough to make me orgasm, either.

I was wrong on both counts.

My groans mingle with her whimpers.

My grip is so tight, so desperate to mimic the feel of her smaller hands, that my orgasm isn’t far off.

“I need you to come before me.” My eyes eagerly track the way her fingers slick up her folds and land on her clit again. “Do you hear me, Gwen?”

Her head tips back against the bed. She’s completely lost to the sensations of her body climbing to the point of no return. I still hear her wry, “always a gentleman,” remark.

“A gentleman wouldn’t think about you swallowing every last drop as you sucked him dry, honey.” My voice grows uneven. “A gentleman wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t want you to sit on his face as he made you come with just his tongue.”

“Oh, my God.”

Her pressure slackens, eases, then increases in tempo.

The realization that she likes me talking dirty to her is like a shock to my spine. Far be it from me not to give her everything that she wants.

“A gentleman wouldn’t demand you come . . . and expect you to do so on his command.”

“Marshall.” My name on her lips is part-reprimand, part-whimper.

I watch as her thighs twitch with the force of her orgasm, and it’s all I need. I thrust twice more into my hand, making sure that the camera is angled so she can see exactly what she does to me. With a groan, I squeeze the tip of my cock as my balls jack up. Hot jets of my come land on my stomach.

Fuck it.

Seriously, just . . . fuck it.

“Marshall?”

I meet Gwen’s gaze in the camera, not shocked to find that she’s now zoomed into her face.

I’d do the same if I had the energy or the strength.

Between the game and this (unexpected) sex session, I’m all kinds of depleted.

But, holy hell, this is by far the hottest sexual experience of my life, regardless of whether or not Gwen’s back in Boston and I’m in Canada. I would never want this moment with anyone else, either—just Gwen, only Gwen.

“Yeah, honey?” I ask after a moment.

Her blue eyes narrow though she’s smiling. “You better not strip any of my kisses from the tally because of this.”

I flop back onto the bed, reversing the camera so she can see my face and upper chest. “Don’t worry. I’ve just decided to give you a holiday bonus. I’m tacking on an extra twelve, one for every night of Christmas.”