Page 79

“Better,” Petras said, which, coming from him, was basically high praise. “Tape’s at nine tomorrow. If any of you are late—” he looked directly at Kowalczyk, who seemed to have legitimate trouble reading a clock “—you’re scrubbing toilets.”

“Uh, pretty sure there’s staff for that,” Koffee snickered.

“And you’ll be joining them,” Petras replied with a lift of his eyebrow. “Be gone.” He shooed us off the ice.

I heaved my tired body off the bench and followed the rest of the guys toward the tunnel, my thighs screaming with every step.

In the locker room, I peeled my pads off, hung them in my stall, then stripped out of my compression gear, which was soaked through and stuck to me like a second skin. I balled it up and shoved it in my bag to deal with later, and grabbed my toiletry kit.

I refused to use the cheap-ass antiseptic-smelling all-in-one shampoo and conditioner the Marauders supplied in bulk. I wasn’t into all that expensive skin care shit like Cally and Bell, but these fucking curls needed to be babied if I didn’t want to look like I had a tumbleweed on my head.

“You still on that piña colada bullshit, Ports?” Bogart called from two stalls down, sniffing the air.

“Yeah, some of us have hair and want to take care of it,” I shot back with a smirk.

Bogart had started to go bald in his early twenties. Now, he had no choice but to shave his head into a cue ball.

“You smell like fucking suntan lotion,” Banks said, scrunching up his nose.

“And you smell like Axe body spray, so I think I’m winning.”

Morrison, on his other side, barked out a laugh, and Banks flipped me off, already turning back to his own shower head.

Freshly clean—and yes, smelling like a piña colada—I walked back to my stall with my kit under my arm and a towel knotted around my waist, dripping a trail across the concrete. I put my shit away, dried off, and pulled on underwear, jeans, and a sweatshirt, half-listening to Nielson talking about some woman he’d met at a bar he was apparently all in on after only a couple of weeks together.

“Her name’s Sydney,” he said, stripping out of his compression gear. “She’s got a cute fucking dog, like a Pomeranian or some shit.”

“Fascinating,” Steve-O said, his voice indicating he thought that nothing could be less fascinating.

Nielson flipped him off and continued, undeterred. “She’s got a hot best friend too. Name’s Paige.” He grabbed some toiletries from the shelf in his stall and turned and scanned the room. “Which one of you fuckers wants to meet her?”

I had this terrible sinking feeling I knew exactly where his eyes were going to land.

“Porter,” he said, pointing at me. “You’re single, right?”

“Uh, why?”

“Weren’t you listening, man? I’m trying to set my girl’s best friend up with one of you assholes.”

I scratched the side of my cheek, a tic I’d picked up from Cally. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

My gaze moved to Cally sitting at his stall a few feet away. He was staring down at his phone, his thumb sliding over the screen. He flicked his eyes up to meet mine, darted them quickly toward Nielson, and then dropped them back down to his phone again.

I was pretty good at reading Cally, but couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to get from this particular exchange.

He’d looked … annoyed, though that wasn’t unexpected. He really wasn’t Nielson’s biggest fan, though he’d never actually said as much. He didn’t have to—it was there in the way his mouth turned down at the corners whenever the guy started running his mouth, or the way he’d leave the room when Nielson entered it. I was honestly surprised no one else had picked up on it yet.

I realized Nielson was still talking, so I dragged my attention back to him, hoping I could get him to rope someone else into this stupid double date.

“What’s the matter, Ports? You got a secret girlfriend none of us know about?” He cracked his knuckles.

I grabbed my beanie, shoving it down over my wet hair. “No. No girlfriend,” I murmured.

Just a teammate I’m having the best orgasms of my life with on the regular.

“So come out with me on Friday,” Nielson pressed. “You’d be doing me a huge favor. Syd won’t shut up about setting Paige up with one of you guys. She’s totally obsessed with hockey players, if you get my drift.”

There was no missing his drift. The guy was about as subtle as a bull in a china shop, as my grandma liked to say.