It’s like the air around us is electrified, the excitement of getting to score on Colt building amongst every player out here.
Colt was called up mid-season last year into the backup goalie position, but shifted quickly into a starter with his cheetah reflexes. After only the first few shots, I can tell he hasn’t lost any of his skillsover break. Every shot is either deflected or caught, and then I’m up. Dawes claps behind me.
“You got this, rook,” he says, and my pulse quickens, not with fear, but in that “how the fuck is this my life” kind of way. I take my first shot, and Colt blocks it with his leg, shaking his head.
“One down, spring chicken,” he almost sings to me across the ice.
I sweep another puck and take my second shot, aiming for the same spot, hoping he’ll be thinking I’ll change it up, but he blocks it easily again.
“That all you got?” Colt asks, and as I turn to collect another puck, I glance up and see Raines watching me with an unimpressed scowl on his face.
“I’ll show you,” I whisper under my breath as my mind flicks through the different trick shots I’d refined through my college years. There’s a chance he’s seen them and will be prepared for whatever I send his way, but then again, the chances he spent his downtime watching college hockey are slim. I make my way up the ice with the puck, then as I get close, I turn my back on him, skating backwards a few feet. Instead of turning back to shoot, I send the puck between my legs, twist my body around, then shoot it up and over his leg and into the back of the net.
“Looks like you’re not just a pretty face,” Dawes calls, the rest of the guys clapping in celebration of my goal on my way past. Everyone except Reid. He’s looking at me with one eyebrow cocked and his impossibly large arms folded across his chest.
“You think that would work in a real game?” he asks, nodding toward where Colt is waiting for the next shooter.
I shrug. “It had a seventy percent success rate last season.”
“More like sixty.”
“How . . .”
“You think I wouldn’t do my research on any player joiningmyteam?”
He says “my team” in a deeper tone, a throaty rumble behind it that comes out all possessive-like. Instead of it giving off an entitled dick vibe, it has my cock waking up and paying notice. Fucking hell, how messed up is that?
“You’ve got skills, rook, but I haven’t seen anything yet that makes me believe you’ve got what it takes to be here.”
“Then you’d better keep watching, because I’ll have you screaming my name with the rest of them by the time the season is over.”
It comes out more flirty than threatening, not that he seems to notice, because his first response is to roll his eyes.
“Good luck,” he scoffs, and then skates over to take his shots. Defenders aren’t the biggest point scorers out on the ice, but he manages to get one past Colt’s head with a massive slap shot, and the second it hits the back of the net, he glances over to where Coach Dennings is watching like he wants to make sure that he saw it. Coach Dennings sends him a nod, and when he spins back, there’s the smallest of smiles on his lips. Could Reid Raines actually be asinsecure as the rest of us mere mortals, and why is it that that thought makes me want to praise him?
As we get toward the end of the session, sweat drips down my face and back, but I’ve managed to stay out of Reid’s way and hold my own.
“Hart,” Coach Dennings calls, and suddenly all eyes are on me.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’re with Raines, two-on-two, let’s go.”
Great.
Coach Dennings blows the whistle, and I’m off like a shot after the puck at the left corner behind my net. Larry Peterson, the highest points scorer of last year and all-around fucking legend, beats me to it. I go after him, hoping to scoop the puck when he passes, but Reid has Dawes blocked out. Larry takes the shot, but Colt is in our goal and deflects it right toward me. I take off, Reid moves up the ice, and when Larry tries to steal the puck, instead of shooting, I pass back to Reid, who lines up for a slap shot that sends the puck right past Mickey Jones, our backup goalie, and into the back of the net. Coach Dennings blows his whistle, and the next four are up.
“Nice slap shot,” I tell Reid as we rejoin the team.
I get a nod in reply, which isn’t a glare, so maybe all this guy needs is a little buttering up? I can do that. Look out, Reid Raines, because you’re about to get Luka love-bombed.
Chapter two
Reid
“Cocky.Arrogant.Egotistical.Takeyour pick,” I say when my brother Benji asks what I think of the rookie, Luka Hart. If only those were theonlywords I’d use to describe him.
“You forgot to add cute as fuck,” he replies as if reading my mind.
