Not that I tell him any of that.
It’s pointless to ask, but I do it anyway. “Should I be worried?”
Marcus grins and claps me on the shoulder. “You’ll see.”
I brace myself as I head into the locker room, preparing for whatever nonsense my teammates have waiting for me.
And it’s definitely there waiting.
In the middle of the locker room stands a life-sized cardboard cutout of Henderson and me mid-argument. It’s a freeze-frame from the broadcast of our game against the Trailblazers, capturing the moment Henderson reamed into me after the second period. My face is contorted in what I can only describe as unhinged determination, while Henderson’s is dark red, and he looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
Next to it sit two glass jars and a handwritten sign that readsWho Would Win in a Fight?One jar is labeledDavies (Unhinged Boyfriend Energy)and the other saysHenderson (Old Man Strength). Both jars are already half full of crumpled dollar bills and coins.
“Real funny, guys.” I shake my head, but I have to fight a smile.
“We thought so,” Jake chirps from his stall. He’s already changed for practice, eating what looks like his third protein bar, based on the empty wrappers next to him.
“Current tally has you up by four bucks, by the way. Peruzzi thinks Henderson would destroy you, but I think the power of your reckless emotional decision-making would win out.”
“Glad to have your support.” I drop my bag, unzip it, and rummage around for my stuff.
“You need it,” he replies. “That video ESPN posted of you breaking your stick has over two million views.”
“Two point three,” Logan corrects with a grin. “Someone even made a remix with dramatic music and slow-mo effects. It’s Oscar material.”
“It’s been three weeks,” I remind them. “Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
Jake winks. “No.”
Logan nods, hair flopping against his forehead. “I think it’s kind of romantic.”
“Cameron nearly giving Coach an aneurysm?”
“No, Cameron’s breaking his stick and missing two saves because he got jelly.”
Got jelly? Jesus Christ.
Grunting, I turn around and start putting on my gear. “Everyone needs to mind their own business.”
“Not how hockey teams work, and you know it,” Logan shoots back, his tone full of mirth.
One by one, players filter in, the locker room getting progressively louder. Once I’m dressed, I head out to the ice, grateful for the chance to focus on something other than the increasingly pointed looks and barely suppressed chuckles from my teammates.
We start with the usual warm-up drills—lateral movements, butterfly slides, post integration work. It’s muscle memory. My body knows what to do without conscious thought. It’s not until an hour later, when my teammates start chirping and cat calling, that I notice the freckled baker sitting in the stands. She’sperched about halfway up, her long hair falling in curls over her shoulders, and she’s completely unbothered by all the grown men skating around in circles staring at her.
Kennedy waves at me from her seat, and the simple gesture—casual, like she belongs there—makes heat pool low in my stomach and my cock harden in my safety cup. Which is equally inconvenient and uncomfortable.
“Eyes on the ice, Davies,” Henderson barks from the bench. “You just let a puck past you that my grandmother could’ve stopped, and she’s been dead for years.”
That’s one way to bruise a man’s ego. Henderson told me in no uncertain terms that if I ever did something as “categorically stupid” as getting distracted by “a fucking jersey” again, he’d ensure I don’t see the ice for an extended amount of time.
So losing my cool isn’t an option.
I adjust my mask and tune out Kennedy, which is just as difficult as expected, locking in on practice. By the time we’re running final drills, I’m in the zone. Marcus (and, by proxy, Henderson) seems impressed with my glove work. I’m tracking a shot from the blue line when movement in my periphery catches my attention.
A woman with dark hair and a designer coat that probably costs more than my first car approaches Kennedy.
The puck hits my pad, but I barely register the save. My focus has completely shattered, narrowing to a single point: Gigi in the stands, talking to Kennedy.
