He draws me into his arms, holds me tight against him. “No, starfire. Not tonight.”
And maybe I should push it, should make him allow me to reciprocate this freaking incredible feeling, but my lids are growing heavy and my body is jelly and it feels perfect to be held like this in his arms, especially as my mind drifts toward dreamland.
“Rest,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you now.”
Words, just words.
But they’re words that settle over me, warm and steady…
As they soothe me into sleep.
Twenty-Four
Colt
The crack of the stick is a sharp, comforting sound—conjuring memories of early morning practices, so cold that the glass was fogged up and our toes went numb halfway through our ice time.
But lost in my memories isn’t where I need to be right now.
Not back to my ten-year-old self.
Not back to my parents forgetting to pick me up so I walked the miles home, lugging the bag that seemed to weigh as much as I did.
Until a teammate forgot something at the rink and after they circled back to get it, their mom saw me walking, realized what I was doing.
For the rest of that season, I had a ride—both to and from practices and games.
The sting of the slash across my hands snaps me into focus.
I’m working, and yeah, it’s work that’s playing a game (a game my parents can’t be bothered to attend even though I got them prime tickets near the glass), but it’s a game that made it possible to pay for Blake’s care, to pay off the second mortgage on their house they took to cover the expenses before I started really getting paid the big bucks.
And they didn’t come.
Not tonight. Not yesterday. Not so many times before.
The whistle trills just as the fucker from the other team slashes me again, and the my-dick-is-bigger-than-your-dick jostling and mind games that take place before each and every face-off snap something in me tonight.
I shove the fucker—hard—sending him to the ice, ass over tea kettle.
“Whatcha doing down there, Ambrose?” I smirk at the youngest of the infamous Ambrose brothers.
Lex is new to the league, and while he’s talented like all of the Ambroses, he’s also got a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. Far wider than his talent allows for.
Now if he could play like his older brother, Ace…
Well, I’d have no hope of knocking that block of muscle over.
“Fuck you,” he growls, but I’m already starting toward the net, Lake having won the face-off back to Riggs at the point.
It’s not a pleasant place to be, their defense doing their best to clear out the crease and give their goalie an unobstructed view of the puck. Which means I’m shoved and punched, pushed and slashed. I dig in my skates, do my best to keep my feet under the onslaught, to give Lake and Riggs time and space.
If they’re busy with me then my teammates have room to work.
So, I put those hours in the weight room to good use, and I stay in place as the play develops.
Riggs passes the puck over to Storm, who carries it down into the corner, buying time, looking for an opening. He flicks it back to Lake, who whips it around to the other defenseman at the point. That’s when I break loose, freeing up space, getting open for the pass that whips my way.
I accept it on the blade of my stick, turn sharply to flick off little Lex Ambrose then drive to the net.
