“Bullshit.” Mix rolled his eyes. To us new guys, he said, “He had Willie write everything on whiteboard in French. And then he paid Coach—the one we had back then—to start practice in French.”
Laramie groaned. “Oh, God. My team did that to me in major juniors.”
Trews shot him a look. “Didn’t you play in Quebec?”
“Yeah, but still.” Laramie shrugged. “My French sucked.”
“At least you knew alittleFrench,” Mix muttered. “Me?” He tsked and shook his head. “All I know is French curses.”
At that, Laramie brightened. “Well, yeah. That’s the important shit!”
Mix laughed. “Russian curses are better.”
Trews frowned. “Idon’t know any of those.”
“What?” Ziggy straightened. “How are you in this league, and you don’t know how to swear in Russian?” He waved a hand and didn’t wait for a response. Thumping the end table with his finger, he said, “Time for you tolearn.”
And just like that, he and Mix were off and running, filling the rookie’s head with Russian profanity. Laramie listened intently, too; he hadn’t picked up nearly as much as I had during major juniors.
As I sat back and watched the interplay, laughing at Trews and Laramie sounding out the new words, I sensed someone watching me. I turned and met Avery’s gaze. He jumped a little, as if he hadn’t expected to get caught, and he flicked his eyes back to our teammates. After a second or two, he cautiously looked my way again.
I hesitated, then offered a small smile.
When he returned it…
Oh, fuck me.
I didn’t want to read anything into it, so I didn’t. I refused to interpret that mischievous little sparkle in his eyes as anything other than amusement over our teammates discussing Russian curses.
But as I turned my attention back to the swearing lesson, my pulse pounded in ways it had no business pounding. Suddenly I was in that same place I’d been when I’d first signed with Pittsburgh, wondering how I would ever concentrate with Avery Caldwell on the ice beside me.
He wasn’t flirting, Peyton.
He’s just being friendly, and he’s laughing at all the Russian talk.
Get a grip.
I chanced another look at him.
Busted him looking right back at me.
And when he pulled his gaze away this time…
Oh, fuck me again.
He blushed.
CHAPTER 11
AVERY
I had never been more relieved to drop onto a hotel bed.
Not after those long-ass flights to the World Cup and to the Olympics. Not after crossing countless time zones and—on occasion—the goddamned International Date Line. Not after yet another game followed by a flight during a grueling playoff series.
After tonight’s game (well, technically last night now, since it was after two in the morning, but whatever), we’d flown from Pittsburgh to Detroit, which was only about an hour. It was hardly the longest night I’d had since I’d started traveling with a hockey team back in my U10 days, but holy shit, I was relieved to be here. Alone. Behind closed doors.
Lying back on the bed, still wearing my suit, I scrubbed my hands over my face and exhaled. I was exhausted, and it had little to do with the intense grind of a game we’d played just a few hours ago.
