Watching him like that, I was lucky I didn’t lose an edge. This version of him—this loose, effortless version—was the Avery I’d drooled over for years. I’d loved watching him play hockey from the moment he’d made the Whiskey Rebels’ roster, and the more I’d seen him in interviews and hype photos, the more I’d watched him as more than just a hockey player. He was my absolute catnip—addictive to watch on the ice, jaw-droppingly gorgeous off the ice, and with a beautiful smile and a wicked laugh that made my brain short circuit.
And right then, while I was distracted by how much I wanted him, I didn’t realize he was skating toward me. Not until he skidded up next to me and showered me with ice crystals.
Eh, a cold shower was a cold shower.
I laughed as I dusted myself off. “Dick.”
“What?” He graced me with that wicked laugh. “You could’ve moved.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I flipped him off. “You want to practice or not?”
“I’ve been practicing. I was just waiting for you to join me.”
Rolling my eyes, I muttered, “For God’s sake.” I grabbed a puck on my stick. “Let’s do this.” I paused. “Or we could make it a challenge.”
He grinned. “Go on.”
Pretending that grin wasn’t going to be my undoing, I said, “Get out the goalie practice pucks.”
Avery guffawed. “Bro, we are not playing with white pucks. Fuck that.”
“What? Why not?” I tapped his skate with my stick. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
He narrowed his eyes. Then he shrugged. “You know what? Fine. You talk a good game.” He gestured toward the locker room. “Go get us a white puck.”
“Yeah? You in?”
“One-on-one, white puck, first to five?”
“You got it.” I skated toward the bench. “Be right back.”
Of course now that I’d dropped the gauntlet, I wasn’t quite sure where the white pucks actually lived. I’d only ever seen the goalie coaches bring them out a few times (usually to a chorus of cursing from Ziggy and Laramie), but where did they actually get themfrom?
I didn’t want to go rifling through the equipment managers’ bins, and I didn’t know if Ziggy would text me back in time (wasn’t he golfing this afternoon?). I could check one of the cabinets where we kept pucks, though, since they might?—
Ah. Jackpot.
I grabbed a couple of the diabolical discs out of the bucket. They were off white, and they were hard as hell to see on the ice. Great for honing a goalie’s ability to track a puck.
And also great for a couple of skaters who were just fucking around on the ice.
“Jesus Christ.” Avery’s voice echoed off the rafters. “Did you have to Amazon Prime them?”
“I had tofindthe damn things.” I tossed them onto the ice, sending them sliding toward him. “They’re hard to see!”
Avery caught one on his stick. “I saw this one just fine. Don’t know what your problem was.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I joined him on the ice. “I’m hearing a lot of talking, but I’m not seeing any?—”
He whipped past me, hip checking me and protecting the puck all the way. “Sorry, what was that?” He called over his shoulder. “I didn’t hear you!”
I laughed as I skated after him. “You’re an asshole!”
Avery cackled, then slapped the puck into the goal and pumped his stick in the air.
I just rolled my eyes and collected the puck from the back of the net. “That was a cheap shot.”
“Pfft. You let your guard down.” He skated up and skidded to a halt, showering me with ice crystals again. “The commentators would’ve had a field day with that.”
