“We got this!” The guys hollered, their voices echoing off the ice and making me smile. I’d do the same thing if I was there.
“So, here’s the deal,” Reiner continued. “We’re not just playing this game for a win. We’re playing to remind ourselves—and everyone watching—who the fuck we are. We’re the team that fights for every puck, that outworks, outskates, and out-hustles every opponent. The team that doesn’t just bounce back—webreak through.
“Tonight, we play for Preston. We play for each other. We play for the pride of wearing this jersey. But most of all? We play to prove that nothing, and I meannothing, can keep this team down. So get out there. Show them. Play the kind of hockey that makes them remember your name.”
The team clapped and catcalled, the sense of unity filling the air, making my chest ache. I wanted to be out there so fucking badly, but once the guys ended practice on a cheer, they rushed me.
“You’ll be back soon, Charming, don’t worry.”
“I won’t take your starting spot this year. Next year, maybe,” a punk ass freshmen said. “So watch your back.”
They high-fived, hugged, and reassured me before they disappeared into the locker room. J.D. approached me with a half-smile, his penetrating gaze already seeing through me.
“You okay?”
I shrugged. “I mean, as well as I can be. I want to be out there.”
“You will be soon.” He ran a hand over his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “You look different. Why?”
“You’re way too perceptive.” I barked out a laugh. “What a time for me to realize I want to play professionally. I wasn’t sure if I wanted it the way Quentin and some of the other guys do. But now that I can’t skate? I want it more.”
“I know what you mean. It takes losing something for you to feel the gravity of it. Well, good news, Charming, you’ll be back next week, and a damn appendectomy isn’t an injury. It’s not gonna make scouts view you negatively. So show up tomorrow, cheer the team on, be there for us, but don’t pout.”
“I’m not pouting,” I replied, anger edging my voice. The lack of playing was really getting to me.
“Hm, you are. It’s all over your face. Work on that for the game tomorrow. Reiner says all the time that coaches and scouts want talent, sure, but how you interact off the ice makes a difference. They want to invest in the future.” J.D. reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “I’m fucking stoked that you wanna play professionally. I knew it. Reiner wasn’t sure, but I saw something in you and called it, so thanks for letting me win that bet.”
“You two are so strange.” I almost laughed.
“Let us know how your follow-up appointment goes.” J.D. released me and held my gaze. “And think about how you can be there for the team tomorrow to showcase your character.”
He left me, my thoughts continuing to spiral. I had to get through my post-op and then I could figure out how to work through this headspace.
My phone buzzed with Jordan’s name popping up.
Jordan: Hey, you want me to take you to your appointment?
Preston: No, I’ll just head there from here.
It’d be easier, and I was in such a foul mood she didn’t need to see me like this. I was pouting, as J.D. said, and while she and I hadn’t quite discussed what we were, I didn’t want to give her any reason to ditch me. Being a needy, annoying pouter was not sexy, so it was best to hide it.
The doctor gaveme the once-over, checking the incision and poking around to make sure everything looked like it was healing properly.
“Good news,” she said, “everything’s on track, but you need to take it easy.”
Of course, “taking it easy” basically meant no hockey, no skating, and no lifting anything heavier than a textbook for another two to three weeks. She encouraged me to keep walking and staying active in small ways, but she made it clear that anything strenuous—anything that could stress my core—was completely off-limits.
“You’ll thank yourself later,” she said, like that would make sitting on the sidelines any easier. The kicker? She reminded me that I’d probably need four to six weeks before I could even think about returning to the ice. “Listen to your body,” she added, but all I could think was how much I wanted to get back out there and stop feeling like a benchwarmer in my own life.
My mood hadn’t improved by the time I returned to the house. Quentin was still with the team, stretching and ensuring all was good with our team trainer. Logan was probably at the library, but Jordan was home. I could sense her the second I walked in.
She wore black leggings that hugged her curves and a cropped sweatshirt that showed off her stomach. My core tightenedat the hint of her skin, the urge to grab hold of her and kiss her senseless right there. But I had to be careful still.
I asked the doctor about sex, and I wasn’t fucking cleared.
Jordan’s long black hair swished side to side as she walked from the living room to the kitchen, giving me a great view of her ass, and I groaned. She slept with me every night and took care of me, making sure I had drinks and food and everything.
And all I focused on was hockey.
