My concentration has officially been fucking broken. I was in the zone, ready to pummel some rookies into submission when I look over and see the prettiest pair of pouty lips I ever wanted to meet. Or kiss. Or do a whole list of things with.

With dark hair in a long ponytail, dark eyes, and those luscious pouty lips I’d like to plunder for days, she’s got my full attention. I sincerely hope she’s a recruiter because no player who likes pussy would ever say no to playing for a team where that beauty works.

She looks back at me as she leaves and I legit want to jump the barrier, skate to the glass, and beg her to let me sink my biscuit into her net. Somehow, though, I think this might get me fired. Or kicked in the balls. No one needs that.

As soon as my penalty time ends, I get my head back in the game, playing hard until Coach splits us up for drills. Of course, because Coach Roger Brown doesn’t like drama and bullshit, he pairs me with the young rookie.

The drill we run requires us to do short passes back and forth while we make our way from one end of the ice to the other. The tight set of the kid’s lips and jaw tell me he’s still pissed about the way I checked him earlier.

“Kid, let it go. Part of the game.”

“Whatever, yeah,” he grunts, his English good despite a thick, Russian accent.

“What’s your name?”

“Mikhail,” he says after a moment as if he’s deciding whether or not to grace me with a response. Punk.

“Is that your first or last name?”

“First.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

I gather one-word answers are all I’ll be getting because not only is he a punk-ass teen, but also a rookie, and he doesn’t want to be told a damn thing. I guess it’ll be up to Coach to work that chip off his shoulder, but I get it. He’s probably banking on a good year or two, followed by a multi-year contract that will set up his family for years. It’s a common story for these kids who come straight to the NHL as teenage phenomes. There’s a great deal of pressure to perform well.

We move to other drills which include passing for distance and shooting on the fly. Coach yells, “Shots on goal! Shots on goal!” This is his mantra. He wants us to take shots, and then take more shots. If we don’t take shots on goal, we won’t score.

After practice, we head in for feedback from the coaching staff. Nothing major just yet, since we’re all just getting to know each other. Some of the guys head to the showers, but I hit the gym with my buddy Georg to lift some weights.

He spots me on the bench, of course threatening to let the thing drop on my head.

“I should fire you,” I say, grunting at the weight. I’ve been pushing myself hard in the weight room lately. I want to be in top physical shape this season. No contract slump for me.”

“As your friend, or as your teammate, or as your spotter?” he asks, grinning.

“All of the above,” I answer with a sharp exhale of breath on my fifth rep. “You suck. Your suckage is overwhelming me right now.”

“Speaking of suckage,” Georg says. “You’ll probably be able to get any woman you want on her knees now that you’re making the big bucks.”

“No need for money,” I say. “My cock is a beacon with or without a wallet full of cash.”

“Indeed,” Georg says. “You’ll have to get bodyguards to fend off all those bunnies. Pussy magnet is what you are.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” I say, finishing the set. I sit up and take a long swig from my water bottle. “What about you? You still seeing your little waitress? Wasn’t her name, Bunny?”

“Bambi,” he says. He shrugs. “Every so often. Netflix and chill, you know?”

“How’s she feel about that?”

“You’re asking about her feelings?” Georg asks, incredulous. “Since when do you give a shit what a woman feels?”

“I care,” I say, making a duh face. “I’m not heartless.”

He rolls his eyes. “You need me anymore? I’ve got my own workout to do.”

I give him the finger as he heads off to the squat rack.

Georg and I have been friends since hitting it off in our first year on the team. He’s my road roommate. We’re about the same age, which is nice since we’re both older than a lot of the guys on the team now. I feel like an old-ass man sometimes, but I feel like this is an all-star year, and I’m gunning for captain next year. I’ve paid my dues in hockey for longer than some of these boys have been weaned from their mama’s titties. Okay, maybe not that long. But long enough. It’s time. And Georg is no competition for captain. He drinks too much, and he makes the news too often. Always up to antics with cars, with women, or partying at some sin-den that’ll be trending on social within hours. Yeah, Coach’s mantra might be shots on goal, but fast cars, fast women is Georg’s at the moment.

Which is not to say I don’t like my fair share of the puck bunnies. I do. They are generally very easy to procure, though I prefer not to see anyone more than two or three times. Anything more than that and it looks and acts like a relationship. And I do not want one of those.

Georg does, but he always gets bored about six months in. If I had to guess, Bambi’s probably on month seven right about now.

I run three quick miles on the treadmill before pushing myself through the punishing CrossFit workout one of our trainers put up on the board. He switches out the routines every day, with a twelve-minute loop designed, I think, to make us feel like we’re dying.

As I wait for Georg to finish up his weight work, I ask, “Did you see the woman who came in with Troy today during scrimmage?”

“Nope. Didn’t even notice Troy, the old bastard. Why?”

“She was a hottie,” I say smoothly. “I just wondered if they brought her on to scout or something.”

“Hot scout?” he asks. “Huh. How’s you have time to look her over?”

“When I checked the rookie, I just looked up and there she was.”

“Did time slow down for you in that magical moment?” he asks, his voice faux-sweet.

I punch him hard in the arm. “Don’t be a dumbass.”

“Ow,” he says, but he’s still grinning. “Well, just find Troy and ask who she is. It’s not so hard.”

“Yeah, I know. If she’s a scout she won’t be around much. Might be good for a quickie now and again.”

“I guess,” Georg says. “I make it a policy not to hump the help, though. Just makes life easier in the long run.”

“You’re not wrong there, friend. I screwed one of the trainers for the Olympic team once. It was okay, not earth shattering and certainly not good enough for a second round. You would not believe how much pain she inflicted on me in the gym afterward.”

We start up a conversation about our times on separate Olympic teams as we head to the showers. Georg grew up playing the same as I did, though he played in the States a lot sooner than I did, and then fumbled around longer in the minor leagues. We got picked up the same year, and he loves to bring up the Olympics. I have no idea why. I mean, it was a good gig and I was super young. Cocksure. A lot like young Mikhail, I suppose. I had a lot of piss and vinegar in me, and something to prove. I took a shit-ton of risks as a player, got injured a lot, played through my injuries.

I’m not exactly conservative now, but I guess I’d say I’m a more thoughtful player now. And having Georg as my right-hand man has been a good match. He’s a defender, but he’s got his eyes on the goal, too. If he plays as well as he did last season, I’ll bet he’ll be right there on the all-star team with me.

As I shower and change, most of the guys have left already. I say goodnight to Coach and head out toward the parking lot, finding the sun and heat overwhelming after a day in the barn. I look around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired beauty, but no such luck. It’s fine, I’ll just think about her on my drive home instead.