The Toronto Mavericks’ stadium was stuffed to the gills with insane, rowdy fans that would love to see Henny take a beating. Henny didn’t care. Couldn’t afford to. It was the third of five games on the road for the Tempest—Henny’s first night back on the ice since the suspension—and letting the home team’s crazy fans throw off his game was not an option.

He was doing a fine enough job of that on his own.

Midway into second period, Gallagher called for a line change, yanking Henny off the ice with Roscoe and Dunn.

It was an unusual call for the coach—the starting lineup was tight as hell, and they usually worked together like a well-oiled machine. The only time they changed it up was if one of them got hurt—or if he was having a seriously off night.

There on the player’s bench, Gallagher steamed. “Get your head in the game, nineteen, or your ass is on the bench for the rest of the game. And you two?” He glared at Dunn and Roscoe. “Collect your boy and keep your line together.”

Gallagher returned his attention to the ice, leaving Henny to stew in his own mounting shame. Behind them, a group of assholes with faces painted in Mavericks’ red and gold banged on the glass.

“Aren’t Canadians supposed to be nice?” Henny asked, flipping them off.

“Not on game night,” Roscoe said. “Come on, Hen. This ain’t your first rodeo.”

Dunn grunted. “This rate, it might be his last. What the fuck, nineteen?”

Henny yanked off his helmet, shoved a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “I’m just a little off my game tonight.”

“You think?” Dunn snapped. “Brilliant observation, Watson. Hey! If this hockey thing shits the bed, you might have a shot as a private dick. Emphasis on dick.”

Dunn grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, not meeting Henny’s eyes.

Henny couldn’t blame him. Tempest was up by one, but they should’ve been up by at least four. Henny’d been playing like shit all night, missing key passes, taking sloppy shots, giving up the puck more times than he could count.

“First game back in a week, sold-out crowd, on the road….” Roscoe shrugged, busting out his “good cop” grin. “Bound to be a little rusty.”

Roscoe, the eternal fucking optimist. Complete opposite of Dunn, who was so worked up his face was turning purple. “This has nothing to do with the suspension and everything to do with—”

“Don’t.” Henny held up his hands. He didn’t need Dunn to spell it out for him. Not like he could forget about her.

Fresh pain jabbed his heart. He hadn’t spoken with Bex in days. After the flowers, he’d gone back to avoiding her, looking for excuses to miss her calls and texts.

Joke was on him, though, because those calls never came. She was avoiding him, too.

A week on the road was supposed to put things back in perspective. Time apart should’ve helped Henny clear his head, get his focus back on the game and his rapidly disintegrating career.

But he was a wreck.

“Fuck yeah, Kooz! That’s how it’s done!” Dunn was on his feet, shouting across the ice. Looked like Kuznetsov had just made a crazy save. Henny hadn’t seen shit. He forced himself to locate the puck, watching as Fahey skated it down the ice.

Fahey and his wingers played a tight game. Like Henny and his boys, the second-line offense had great synergy, reading each other’s movements and playing to each other’s strengths as they stormed the Toronto goal zone. The Mavericks goalie was tough as hell, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop Fahey’s over-the-shoulder shot.

The crowd roared in frustration. Tempest was up by two now, and Dunn and Roscoe cheered. Henny wanted to join them. He wanted to be happy for his team. He wanted to get back on the fucking ice. But his mind kept looping back to Bex, again and again and again.

He’d gone over to the bar that day with every intention of clearing the air. But no matter how hard he’d tried to pretend everything was normal, Henny just couldn’t look at Bex the same way. For twenty-five years they’d been friends. Best friends. They’d shared a bond that transcended all others. Even his team—guys he’d do just about anything for—came second to Bex. And the women he’d been with in the past? Hell, none of them could hold a candle to her. Not where it really counted.

Yeah, any man could see she was gorgeous. It’s not like Henny couldn’t acknowledge a simple fact. But before the other night, hormonal high school fantasies aside, he’d honestly never entertained thoughts about being with her like that. Bex and Henny were friends. The best. His mind simply hadn’t allowed for any other possibilities.

But now, whenever he thought of Bex—pretty much every five seconds—his gut twisted, and it wasn’t just guilt. Seeing her at the bar the other day had nearly undone him. She was different. Everything was different.

Fuck.

What was happening? Was he just being protective, feeling guilty for putting her in that situation, especially knowing she’d been through hell and back with her ex?

Or did he have feelings for her?

Bex was the most important person in his life. But when he remembered the soft feel of her skin on his face that morning, the curve of her bare shoulder when he’d woken up next to her… Hell, he’d never been so turned on in his life. Even now, hundreds of miles away from her, he was hard as fuck.

He was totally hot for her, and there wasn’t a damn thing to be done about it.

Second period ended with a buzz, jerking Henny back to the present. Fahey had scored another goal. Henny hadn’t even realized it.

Get your head in the game, asshole.

Henny took a swig of Gatorade, forcing himself to stay in the moment.

Hockey. Toronto. Start of the third.

Across the bench, Gallagher eyed them up, assessing.

“You good?” Roscoe asked.

Henny nodded, strapping his helmet back into place. Yeah, he was good. Fine. Had to be.

“Do not fuck this up.” Dunn smacked him on the helmet, finally meeting his eyes. His snarl twisted into a smile, and Henny blew out a breath. “Let’s rock these motherfuckers.”

Dunn signaled to Gallagher that they were ready to roll, and seconds later, the starters were back on the ice, lining up for the third period face-off.

By some monumental effort, Henny shoved aside all thoughts of Bex for the rest of the game, channeling all his energy into beating the Mavs. One minute into the third, he scored his first goal of the night, then assisted Roscoe on another soon after. In the final minute of the game, refs nailed the Mavs’ left winger for high-sticking, and Henny scored again on the penalty shot, closing out the game with a six-three win.

The boys were pumped. Gallagher and the suits were marginally appeased, but Henny couldn’t complain about their lack of enthusiasm. Tonight could’ve just as easily gone the other way.

After a brief recap, the team hit the visitors’ gym for the post-game workout, then headed into the showers. It was still fairly early in Hogtown, and after the excitement of the win, the single guys were ready to check out the scene, clock in a few hours of fun before their morning flight to Minnesota.

Wasn’t too long ago that Henny would’ve lead the charge.

But tonight, there was only one woman on his mind.

And he was done pretending he could go for more than a day without hearing her voice.