Tossingmy phone to the side to keep me from throwing it across the room, I watch as Rhodes hangs up the phone. Damn, that was fast.
“It just so happens that the Cougars are looking to make a big trade to put themselves in a better position,” he explains. “Dana said that their coach will probably shit himself when she calls him.”
“Let’s hope she meant that figuratively,” I mutter. “I need our coach to have a stronger sphincter to withstand our personalities.”
“Only time will tell,” Rhodes shrugs, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.
“Well, since this is taken care of, let’s go to our bedroom so I can enjoy the gaping hole I left from the plug you have in your ass,” I decide. “We can celebrate finding our scent match. The rest we’ll figure out as things progress.”
“I think I like that idea,” Rhodes purrs.
“I had a feeling you would,” I say, getting up. The two of us race to the bedroom to work out some much needed sexual tension.
Hope you’re ready for us, Koen. We play for keeps.
Koen
Our team skatesout of the tunnel to begin warming up, and I find myself surrounded by my teammates as I begin stretching. My mind blanks as I fall into the routine of making sure my muscles are loose and my limbs are ready for the next three periods.
Hockey is a rough sport on players’ bodies. I make sure to do whatever the team doctor tells me to because my ego doesn’t exist when it comes to taking care of myself.
Taking a deep breath of cold air, I skate to the bench once our warm up is over. My eyes move over our opponents, and I remind myself of each player’s strengths and weaknesses. Coach drills our memories just as hard as he does our skills. I need to make sure I know whose ass to stay on tonight.
I’m a center, and it keeps me in play for a large portion of the game. I fucking love to be in the thick of it, and I’m not a puck hog. We win or lose as a team.
The whistle blows and I jump over the wall onto the ice with my teammates. Pushing myself hard, I get control of the puck and send to Myers, one of my forwards with good hands. My mind is completely on the game, while my team protects me from getting hit too hard.
It would suck to be forced out of this game due to a concussion, though it’s happened before.
My lips split into a wide grin for a second as the Cougars score and I tap Myers’ helmet before moving back into position.
During the second period, shit pops off when I’m fighting for the puck with my team. My teeth grit together as I’m jostled, and a stray punch catches my side. Refusing to let that affect me, I get control of the puck and get it to Carter before I throw myself into a fight.
Disrespect doesn’t fly with me, and the Angels have insisted on knocking me into the boards, tripping, chirping nonstop nonsense. It shows that research goes both ways, except my reputation for getting into fights has been misunderstood.
I’m not going to get into a fight to the detriment of winning the game. That’s never been my style, and I’m often misunderstood due to it. Some coaches understand what I’m about, while others are happy to trade me the second they can.
Coach Fulstrum thankfully is someone who understands my tactics, and has leaned into my Viking approach to hockey.
My fists find their intended targets, and I growl as my stick goes flying and several Angels brutally slam me into the boards. Another puck slips through Rhodes’ defenses as the wail of a siren screams through the air.
“Maybe you should pay more attention to the game than beating my ass—” I begin to taunt as a hand grabs the scruff of my jersey. “What?!”
I’m yanked out of the fight just as a whistle blows. My skates glide along the ice, and I struggle to see who’s pulling me since I somehow got turned around as I was “rescued.” You can’t rescue someone who’s enjoying themselves, though.
A warm huff of air invades my senses before a deep voice says, “You really are trouble on the ice, aren’t you? They came for blood. Stay with your team so the Angels can’t get another chance at you, Little Omega.”
Swallowing hard as I’m let go, I turn to watch as Skylar skates away toward the bench. My heart pounds as I think about his words. I can’t believe he pulled me from a fight started by his own teammates. I know what he said in Los Angeles, but I didn’t think he was serious.
Working on autopilot as I hustle back to the locker room because I can feel blood dripping down my face. Fuck, I hope it doesn’t keep me out of the game. Pulling off my helmet, I make a face at the team doctor as he sits me down.
“There’s a cut under your eye,” he mutters, cleaning me up and closing the cut with some butterfly tape. “They’re out for blood tonight.”
“They are,” I sigh. “Their goalie is supposed to be better than this. How are we ahead?”
The game resumes on the television above me, and I glance up as the doctor shoves a cold compress against my face. The swelling needs to be controlled so my eye won’t swell shut. Even I’ll have difficulty if I can’t fucking see.
“I don’t know,” the doctor shrugs. “Keep the pressure on. It’s obvious he’s feeling it.”
