Page 4 of The Worst Pucking Deal

“Sawyer… over here, Sawyer.” I turn my head toward the voice. “Are you staying the night to sample the local women?” Rather than answering, I smile and shake my head.

We push our way through the throng of reporters and photographers, and despite this not being my first time, it’s hard not to react when they shout my name. But I do my best to keep my gaze down and ignore the questions that grow more and more taunting.

“What happened to that woman sneaking out of your hotel room last month, Sawyer?”

“Did you know there are speculations that you’re overcompensating for being gay?”

Jesus, fuck. They’re reaching, and it’s beyond pathetic. I’m not gay, but if I were, I’d like to think I’d act the same way. I sigh as we reach the bus that’s taking us to the airport. Fans and puck bunnies have gathered around it. Damn, some of those women are pushing my self-control to the limit. So while my teammates stop and talk, I push my way toward the bus.

“Excuse me.” I turn at the voice, noticing mini Jo, or Lucia as she’s called, pushing her way to the front.

I stop walking and gesture for her to walk in front of me. “Be my guest,” I smirk, not bothering to hide that I’m checking her out. My eyes stay glued to the top of her tits that look like they’re barely kept in place by the bra that’s teasing through her button-up shirt. And as she passes me, I drop my gaze to her ass as it sways enticingly in her tight pants.

I’ve seen Lucia around the arena and on our trips more times than I can count, yet I don’t think we’ve ever spoken much. She’s one of the people working directly on my social media accounts, that much I know. But beyond being nice to look at, that’s it.

She gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, Sawyer.”

Giving her a curt nod, I file into the back of the bus, waiting for everyone else to take their seats. I know this part sucks for those with partners. Our GM and Coach have a very strict policy barring partners from traveling with us. So when we leave right after a game, they don’t get to see them until we’re back home. Sucks to be them.

The drive to the airport goes smoothly. We’re all pretty high on the win, so there are lots of cheers, and talk about the game. “It was like you were flying. Fucking flying, man,” Mickey, our left defender, says as he sits next to me.

Grinning, I slap him on the shoulder. “Right back at ya.”

“Don’t make his ego bigger than it already is,” Soren groans, throwing himself into the seat in front of us. “Tell him he did shit.”

“Which one of us?” Mickey asks with a sly smile.

I laugh. “Don’t get jealous just because no one ever gives you a compliment, Soren.”

Scoffing, he flips me off.

I’ve known the two of them since before we joined the Sabertooths. Soren was the first to join, then Mickey, and I was the last one. While the Sabertooths is the only NHL team Soren’s played for, both Mickey and I have played for others. Before signing here in Minneapolis, I played in Boston. But that’s the past, and now that we’ve played on the same team, I can honestly say I never want to be against either of them again.

On the ice, Mickey is the person you want next to you, and Soren’s the one you want guarding the goal. Not that I’d ever tell them that, their egos don’t need to get bigger. They’re two of my closest friends on and off the team, and that’s all that matters.

The driver takes us to the private landing strip where two different Sabertooths jets are waiting. Our GM doesn’t want the players and other staff flying together. I’m not really sure why that’s a thing, but I guess it has something to do with the PR team working while we just want to celebrate and relax.

As soon as we’re on board the private jet, I lean against the window and give in to some much needed sleep. I don’t notice the chatter going on around me or the drinks being supplied. I’m blissfully unaware of anything until we land in Minneapolis.

We’re once again met by reporters, but now that we’re on our home turf, they’re less confrontational with their questions. They’re congratulating us on the win and wanting to know if we think we have what it takes to go all the way this year.

“I can smell the Cup,” Coach says in his gruff voice. “It belongs to us this year.” Some locals that have gathered to show their support whoop in excitement.

Jo and her mini me, aka Lucia, stand with Coach, nodding their heads like this is all part of their plan. For all I fucking know, it might be. “We like our chances this year,” Jo says.

“How long do we have to stay here?” Mickey whispers.

I shrug. “Until we’re done.” That’s the best answer I have.

Jo carries on, talking about the team more than the game. She’s telling them all about the charity stuff we’re doing this year, competitions for the fans, and things like that. I’ve heard it all before, we all have, so I barely pay attention.

“And if you want to follow the players, we’re—” Jo lets out a startling cry as she stumbles forward. I frown as Coach moves forward to catch her before she falls. “I’m sorry about that,” Jo says, smiling sheepishly at the camera while looking around. Probably to find the reason she almost fell down. There’s none as far as I can see.

Lucia still stands there, but she isn’t looking at the cameras or Jo. I don’t know what she’s seeing, but it’s something that’s causing her to frown. I nudge Mickey and incline my head in the direction Lucia’s still looking.

“This really isn’t the fucking time to check her out,” Mickey deadpans.

I open my mouth, about to tell him that’s not what I’m doing. But before I can make a sound, an agitated man forces his way toward us. Lucia takes a step back, but it isn’t enough to avoid him as he barrels forward, shoving her out of the way. An unwarranted surge of protectiveness runs through me, making me wish I’d pulled her out of the way.

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