Searing heat tore down my legs, my quads begging me to stop as I rushed over the blue line. I’d seen the hole. The shot. Karlsson was distracted. He took the bait as I faked the pass to my left winger, Rasmussen. Karlsson dropped to his knees ready to stop the puck from the left, totally unaware I was about to best him. My D-man set up the screen, taking the goalie’s sight. I made it look too damn easy as I slid my hand down my stick and scored over his right shoulder with a wrister.
“Fuck yes!” I roared as the puck hit the back of the net.
Nothing could stop me today. I was still high from Friday night. Stevie’s taste was a punch of adrenaline every time I thought about it, thought about her. Thought about the way her lips had wrapped around that damn lime.
“Goddamnit!” Karlsson yelled and it echoed throughout the rink, reeling me back from my dirty thoughts.
He smashed his stick down onto the ice and I chuckled at his tantrum. My skates shot a wave of ice over the crease as I came to a sudden stop. “We’ve come at you with over twenty-plus shots, Mike, and this is the only one you’ve let by. Don’t throw a fucking fit.” I smiled and smacked the side of his helmet.
“I know, but a point’s a fucking point.” I assessed his eyes through his mask. The defeat was already fading.
As he turned and grabbed his bottle of water off the net, I said, “Yeah, but your save percentage against Dallas is stellar. You’ve got this, man. We’ve fucking got this.”
He nodded and squeezed the bottle, spraying a stream of water into his mouth through a hole in his mask.
“Shit, Melo, you gonna stroke his dick, too?” Bryson’s smile was smug as hell as he greeted me with a glove-covered fist bump.
“I thought that was your job.” Mike’s tone held more humor than it did any real frustration.
I laughed as I said, “Hey, we could all use a little confidence after Columbus.”
“Should we run a few more plays?” Mike Karlsson was arguably one of the hardest working goalies in the league. “I want to try to stop your wrist shot again.”
“It doesn’t count if you know it’s coming.”
Mike threw his water bottle on top of the net. “Try me.”
Mike ended up stopping every attempt we’d had on goal. A few of which were mean-as-fuck slap shots Bryson had landed straight to the logo of Mike’s jersey. We all looked really damn good on the ice today, and afterward, in the locker room, the coaching staff had said as much. The loss we’d taken on the road was long gone for most of the team, by most, I mean everyone but me. Mia had been at morning skate, and the silence between us was a loud reminder of how I’d contributed to our team’s loss. But I’d wrapped up that shit show in my head and threw it away before I hit the shower.
Everyone was pumped, and I had to admit, despite what had happened with Lynch, I was feeling that energy, too. Music blared throughout the locker room, some crazy ass metal shit with a heavy hip-hop beat that paced my heart. My limbs were light, my muscles itched, ready for a win. Game day. Win or lose. It was an addictive form of anxiety, a rush toward devastation or fucking glory. The anticipation, the hopeful unknown. Nothing beat that.
I could overhear Bryson talking shit to Mike, and I smiled, pulling my shirt over my head. It was their game day ritual. Hockey was a mental game. And the last thing you wanted was for your goalie to lose his shit and become a sieve.
“Set it up, dick. I bet I can get at least three into the net,” Bryson taunted, but Mike laughed.
“Three?”
“Fuck yeah, asshole, maybe even four out of five.”
Mike shook his head and I laughed.
“What’s so fucking funny, Melo? You want in on this little bet?”
I sat down on the bench and leaned over to lace my shoes. “What’re the stakes this time?”
“Pride, Melo.”
When I glanced up at Bryson he smirked. Bullshit.
“Do I even want know?” I asked.
Mike snickered, and I immediately knew these idiots had bet on something that would have me questioning their morality.
“Whoever wins gets to pick the loser’s chick for the night.” Mike’s smile got even wider.
“There is something seriously wrong with both of you.” I stood and couldn’t help but laugh as they looked at each other with shit-eating grins. “One of these days you guys are going to fuck over the wrong girl, and I hope I’m there to take a picture when all that crazy comes back to bite you both in the ass.”
Bryson waved me off. “Nah. These girls use us as much as we use them.”
Unfortunately, he was right, and it made me feel that much better I’d left that shit behind ages ago. Stevie’s eyes, her mouth as it pulled into a grin, the way it felt to be pressed against her on the boards. It all came flooding past the weak wall I’d tried to raise for practice today, in an attempt to keep my head straight. I’d spoken to Stevie yesterday and given her the details about her tickets, and where to sit. She’d be sitting a few rows up, behind my team’s bench. Having her here tonight had something stirring inside me. A potent mixture of nerves, anticipation, and pride. Something I’d never really felt before in regards to a chick. She was fun, and didn’t give a fuck about pretenses. She was real, and as Mike and Bryson had reminded me, that shit was hard to find.
“Well? Melo? You in or not?” Mike asked.
“Definitely not.”
Mike’s six-foot-four frame deflated and he ran his hand through his hair. “I thought I’d have some actual competition this time.”
Bryson coughed out a laugh and shoved Mike in the chest. “I let you win, asshole.”
The guys were like brothers with how they acted, and it helped they both had dark hair and blue eyes.
Bryson’s deep laughter cut off abruptly, and I turned in time to see Coach approaching us.
“You got a minute?” he asked me.
I grabbed my phone and wallet from the stall and put them in my pocket. “Sure.”
His forced smile was a red flag. Unease spread in my gut as I followed him to his office. A few of the guys, some of the younger players, went quiet as we walked by. Shit. That was never a good sign. I ran all the plays we’d done this morning in my head, every shot I took. Nothing came immediately to mind. I’d crushed it out there today. So when he actually closed his office door, which he never did, my throat contracted.
“Have a seat, Melo.”
“What’s up?”
He held out his hand, gesturing to the chair, and I reluctantly sat down.
“Nice work today.” He took a seat behind his desk. This wasn’t about today?
“I’m not going to pussyfoot around this, Melo. Tonight is fucking important. I got some news today, and I need to know it’s not going to mess with your game.” He exhaled and knocked his fist on the desk lightly, gathering his thoughts. “I need your head with the team.”
“Fuck, Coach, what’s up?”
“Mia put in her resignation. Looks like she’s moving to Columbus.”
A laugh tripped past my lips. Relief expelled from my lungs as I exhaled the past two years of toxic air. Her presence here was a curse. And I’d never really felt the full power of it until now. Mia had been my choice, my mistake, and it had affected our team. That one word, resignation, lifted the corners of my lips and the burden of our relationship off my shoulders.
“You okay with this?” His furrowed brows relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. His relief mirroring mine.
“More than okay.”
He nodded, his usual stoic and stone face gentled and it surprised me when he said, “We should’ve fired her, but—”
“But she’s a great skate coach.”
You couldn’t make a decision for a team based on one man’s issues. You had to find balance, and balance was Maddox’s specialty.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s just win tonight.”
I stood, letting the news sink in fully, letting that feeling ignite my spine. My smile was sure, steadfast. “Is there any other option?”
Atlas pulled on the leash as we ran up the stairs to my apartment. I should’ve taken the elevator, but I wanted to get as much of his energy out as I could before I left for the arena.
“Chill, boy.”
He answered with a booming bark, paws digging at the threshold. I laughed as I opened my front door and removed his leash. Atlas bounded into the living room and grabbed his rope between his teeth. He was the size of a small horse, and when he ran toward me, skidding on the wood floors, he almost took out one of the bar stools in the kitchen. I set my keys down on the countertop and opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. I had an hour before I had to be back to the rink.
Atlas nudged my ass with his nose and I swatted a playful hand at his muzzle. I turned to grab the rope but he dropped down into a pouncing position. Leaning down, I snagged the side of the rope hanging from his drool-covered lips and tugged. He growled, but I was able to get it free and tossed it across the floor, watching as he barreled toward the damn thing. Instead of rushing back, the click clack of his paws slowed and then disappeared as he made three circles in the oversized dog bed by the couch.
“You’re the laziest dog I know. One pass, that’s all you got?”
He ignored me, as usual.
My phone buzzed, and as I pulled it from my pocket, it alerted again. The screen flashed with two names. Stevie and Bryson. It was no contest which one I’d read first.
Stevie: Is it five yet?
I laughed at the angry, red-faced emoji on the screen and Atlas’s ears perked.
“It’s Stevie,” I said, and his head turned to the side. “We like her.”
I tapped out a quick response.
ME: Bad day at work?
I switched to Bryson’s message and groaned. It was a link to this bullshit gossip website that specialized in sports and fucking lies. I pressed my thumb onto the link, and there it was in big ass bold letters.
Tampa Bay’s Star Player Gets Lucky
Who is Mark Carmelo’s new Mystery Woman?
Scroll down to get the details.
Holy shit.
The angle was crap, and you couldn’t, thank fuck, see her face, but that’s mostly because it looked like I was eating it. The picture was fuzzy, someone had probably snagged the shot with their phone while skating by. My heart rate slowed as I stared at the picture. Unless you knew what to look for, most people wouldn’t have been able to tell if it was me or not.
Bryson: Who’s the girl?
ME: A chick I’m seeing.
Bryson: Since when?
I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled.
ME: Just worry about the game tonight.
My phone chirped, but this time it was Stevie, and my irritation with Bryson’s nosy ass morphed into a nervous knot in my stomach. How would she react? Better yet, would she even want to deal with all this media bullshit? Even on my best days I loathed the media. They’d already misconstrued, contorted, speculated enough about my life. Stevie was level-headed, mature, she’d understand, at least I sure as hell hoped she would. I came with baggage. My life was hockey. And I loved it. I was always training, traveling, and being with me was like living in a fishbowl. The media was a reality I couldn’t sweep under the rug.
I opened her text with a heaviness I wasn’t ready to deal with.
Stevie: One of Trent’s big clients is getting audited. He’s worried he may need to pull in more help.
ME: Sounds messy.
Stevie: Very.
Stevie: I’m excited about tonight though. Thanks for the tickets again.
I ignored my growing apprehension. I’d have to tell Stevie about this picture, and I promised myself I would some time later tonight. Right now, I’d let myself focus on how she was “excited” about the game. The way she had me feeling like I’d known her longer, beyond the short amount of actual one-on-one time we’d spent together, it was a natural attraction. There was no hesitation. Only that persistent pull. And I couldn’t wait to kiss her again, watch her come alive beneath my touch.
ME: Did you decide who you’re going to bring?
When I’d called her and told her she had two tickets she’d been relieved to not have to sit alone, but her relief had turned quickly into an adorable panic attack. Her boss and business partner were huge fans, and would “kill her” for the tickets.
Stevie: I never told the guys.
Stevie: I’m bringing my friend, Reagan.
ME: Good choice.
Stevie: Less hurt feelings.
ME: I’ll get my teammates to sign something for them.
Stevie: You’d do that?
ME: I’d do just about anything if it means I’ll get a repeat of the other night.
Stevie: Such a whore.
My laugh was loud enough Atlas barked and trotted over to where I was leaning against the counter. I wondered if she was blushing, if her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, a shy smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I could almost hear her light giggle.
ME: Seriously, it’s no big deal. We sign shit all the time.
Stevie: They’d love that. Thank you!
I rubbed Atlas’s head, his gray and black-spotted face stared up at me, his big eyes pleading for something.
“What?” I asked and a low grumble sounded in his throat. “Should we send her a picture?”
I leaned down to his level, opened the camera app on my phone and snapped a couple of shameless selfies. There was only one decent picture. My smile was goofy as fuck, but Atlas had his ears up and his eyes right on the camera. I attached it to the next text message.
ME: Atlas told me he wants to meet you this time.
She didn’t take long to respond.
Stevie: Does he now?
I wanted to hear her voice, hear the sexy laughter in her tone. I pressed the call button. It rang barely once.
“Hey,” she whispered and I wanted to lose myself in the sultry, almost sleepy quality of it.
“Come over after the game.”
“Are you sure you won’t be tired?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather hang out with you than sleep.”
Amongst other things. But I kept that to myself.
“Mark… I…” I heard her softly exhale. I was ready for her to tell me I pushed too hard, that coming over was a bad idea. “Should I meet you there after the game or…”
“Have Reagan take you to Time Out, it’s right by the rink. We always go there after the game.”
“Time Out?”
“Yeah, it’s the same place I met you.” My smile stretched wide. “We don’t have to stay long, but it will give you and Reagan a place to chill until we wrap up at the rink. I’ll text you when I’m about to head over.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said and a quiet laugh drifted through the phone and hit me in the chest. “Reagan is going to lose her mind.”
“Why?”
“She’ll have an entire hockey team to drool over all night, and when she finds out we’re having drinks with said hockey hotties she might implode.”
“You’ll have to keep her away from my captain, Bryson.”
“Noted.”
“Hey, Stevie?”
“Hey, Mark?”
“Thanks for coming tonight.”
She was quiet for three, maybe four, long seconds. Each one marked and etched into the beat of my hungry pulse.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”