Whenever I was off the ice, I was a mess, so any time I wasn’t helping Rachel with something, I was a full-on rink rat. Here as much as I could, lingering after practice for as long as they’d let me.
Today, practice had ended, and I’d been lazily skating and chasing pucks, looking for some reason to stay longer.
My excuse came from an unexpected place:
“So.” Peyton—we were on a first name basisnow—bounced a puck on the blade of his outstretched stick. “You in a hurry to go? Or do you want to practice faceoffs?”
I was at the bench for a swig of water, and I paused to consider the question.
Practicing faceoffs with the man I was supposed to have a crush on—Hello, libido? Anybody home?—sounded more enjoyable than what I’d do as soon as I got home. A lot healthier too. And I was down for any excuse to keep my skates under me for as long as possible.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”
In my past life, the way he smiled would’ve made me miss an edge and land on my ass. Today, there was an unexpected zip of… something. Like the faintest ghost of a thrill. Not excitement, but the promise that I still had the capacity for excitement, I supposed?
Either way, I didn’t argue with it. I returned the smile, ready to suggest we get Davis to join us, but… was I imagining that blush? The way his gaze darted away from mine?
Yes. Yes, I absolutely was. Because he was my teammate, and my sanity was a distant memory.
Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Should I get Davis? Might not be a bad idea to have a few of us.”
Peyton looked around the rink at our remaining teammates. “Yeah, why not?” Then he frowned. “I think Coach LeBon is busy, though.”
He was right—our offensive coach was busy doing some work with some of the guys from the bottom six. Fortunately, we had other options.
“Actually,” I said, “Jayson coaches faceoffs too.”
“Oh, does he?”
I nodded. “I’ll grab him if you can get Davis and some of the other guys.”
Jayson, our skills coach, was in the locker room, but hehadn’t taken off his skates yet and he wasn’t in a hurry. Though faceoffs were usually the domain of the offensive coach, Jayson had been amazing at them during his playing career, and he was a really good coach.
When Jayson and I returned to the ice, Peyton had wrangled Davis, Baddy, and Willie, and we all gathered around one of the faceoff dots.
“Calds, Hall.” Jayson gestured at the dot. “You’re up first.”
Great. So I had to go up against one of the best in the League at faceoffs? Eh, it would be good for me. Humbling, if nothing else.
And yet another very welcome distraction from the world that existed outside this rink.
As I positioned myself, I flicked my eyes up, and I forgot all about the puck, faceoffs, hockey.
Looking at those piercing blue eyes in an interview or across the ice was one thing. Up close like this? Holy hell.
Movement in my peripheral vision reminded me a second too late what we were doing, and by the time I went after the falling puck, Peyton had already won the faceoff.
“Goddammit,” I laughed. “See? You’re way faster than me!”
Jayson huffed. “Well, for starters, you need to watch the puck. Not your opponent.”
My face was instantly on fire, and I refused to read anything into the way Peyton ducked his head and bit his lip as he skated a circle.
“Right,” I said. “Watch the puck. Got it.”
“You sure?” Jayson deadpanned.
“Fuck you.”
