Page 30 of Broken Ice, Mended Hearts

Sven stood and extended a hand to help me up. The scrape of our calluses against each other made my breath catch. Damn, everything about him was sexy.

We were well matched as workout partners, close to the same height and weight, and both strong. It’s easier to push each other when there isn’t a significant difference in size. Fuck Eckie and Jack and whatever they’d thought they picked up on, but theywere right about one thing—it wasn’t long before Sven and I took off our shirts. I was more distracted after that, but the eye candy was worth it.

A while later, Sven was behind me, spotting me for a set of bench presses. When I finished, he put his hands over mine before I could remove them from the bar. He said I should widen my grip and moved my hands to the correct position. Despite the tingle his touch left behind, the next set was easier. At least, it was easier to hold on to the bar, but it was harder on my pecs, delts, and triceps, exactly as it should have been.

I was shaky by the end of the set, and he helped guide the bar back into place on the rack, then traced his fingers over my hands. He lingered there, and his light touch sent heat radiating through my body. When I started to get up, he placed both hands on my pecs, setting a fire inside me. I lost myself in his eyes for about the thousandth time. When he kneaded the muscles, I groaned from the pleasure as excitement shot from my balls and arced up my spine. “Fuck, that feels good.”

“It helps to work out the knots,” he said. “You don’t want to be sore tomorrow.”

His eyes darkened when I rested my hands on top of his. We both felt the spark, and I wished he would bend over and kiss me, give me a redo of that moment when I’d refused him. My breaths were quick and shallow, and my heart took off the way it had when we kissed earlier. I licked my lips, hoping he’d take the hint. My shorts were tenting, and I chanced a look at his. Sure enough, he was sporting wood in a major way. “You’re looking… big,” I said.

He twisted his lips into a smile. “Yeah? You are too.”

“I want you.”

“We can go to my place when we get done here.”

The door opened, and an all-too-familiar voice called out. “Gags, I should have known. And who’s this?”

Shuford’s voice meant sudden death for my boner, and Sven groaned softly as Shuford started across the room.

“Sven Holmer?” Shuford asked. “Fancy seeing you here. You and Gags keeping each other in line?”

“An impossible task,” Sven said, taking Shuford’s proffered hand so they could shake.

I sat up, and Shuford shook my hand too. “We’ll be working out here most mornings, Coach,” I said. “I hope that’s okay.”

“No problem. I wish the other boys were as dedicated as you. Maybe we could win the Cup again next year.”

We laughed and then shot the shit for a few minutes until Shuford looked at his watch. “Crap, I’m late for a meeting upstairs with Mulberry.” Al Mulberry was the team’s GM.

“Enjoy that,” I said, as sarcastically as I dared. Mulberry was unpopular with the players, but he seemed to get on well with the coaching staff.

Shuford nodded. “I heard weights clanking in here and wanted to see who it was. Have a good day, men. Maybe I’ll join you sometime.”

With that, he was gone. Shuford, the Barracudas’ head coach, was one of the most successful coaches in NHL history. Between his years in Detroit, Toronto, and Bethesda, he’d amassed seven Stanley Cups and produced some of the best players in league history.

Sven chuckled. “He’s a nice man, but what a way to kill a buzz. Shit, I hope he didn’t see how hard we were.”

“He didn’t have on his glasses. He’s gotten very near-sighted.”

“Is his health okay, though?” Sven asked. Shuford had suffered a heart attack last summer and hadn’t returned to his coaching duties until January.

“Mean as ever,” I said, making us both laugh. No matter how nice a coach was, “mean” was about as good a thing as any self-respecting player would ever call him. It was probably the result of deeply ingrained fear from junior hockey days.

“Good for him. He’s what… seventy-four?”

“Seventy-three, I think.”

“I hope I’m still doing so well at that age.” He broke into his tantalizing lower-lip grin, making my dick twitch. “Now,” he said, “where were we?”

“We were about to do some cardio.”

“Fuck the treadmills. I know another kind of cardio that’s much more fun.”

“Fuck off, Holmer. Save that shit for later.” I walked toward the treadmills, but halfway there, I turned around. “You coming?”

“I hate fucking cardio,” he grumbled, hurrying to catch up.

---