Page 37 of Flirty Pucking Wolf

I give the most convincing smile I’m capable of and grab her hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m fine, physical game last night. Not a big deal. Really.” I turn her so her back is against my front and wrap my arms around her. The judges watch our exchange. Everyone has seen this. Crap. I’d sigh but taking that deep of a breath would hurt too much.

Mary Ann’s brow creases with concern. “Are you okay, Trevor?”

“I’m fine.”

Carlo gives his charming but lecherous grin. “You certainly are fine! That was one spicy salsa. Technically, it was wonderful, and there’s an obvious connection between the two of you, but I’m concerned. You don’t look like you’re having fun anymore. You’re doing everything right, but the spark of joy is gone.”

I shrug. I can’t answer. I’m not having fun. I’m stressed, I’m exhausted, I’m guilty that I’m letting down my team by having this show as a distraction. I can’t give my team my all and give dancing with Sophie my all. I don’t have that much. But the last thing I’m going to do is complain about it. A handful of weeks are all I have with Sophie and the show. That’s assuming we make it to the finals. The way the Devil Birds have dropped in the standings because of our losses, the playoffs aren’t guaranteed. My hockey season could be over soon too. I’ll suck it up for a few more weeks and cherish every moment I have doing things people only dream of.

Hockey media loves to speculate if the show, and by extension, Sophie, is the reason my points production has dropped off and why the Devil Birds are losing more games. I know my teammates and management don’t think that. Hockey is a team sport, and everyone says it’s not all on my shoulders to make the goals and win the games. But it’s hard not to internalize the chatter and let it screw with me. I’m doing everything possible to play the best I can while also dedicating every moment not taken up by hockey to learning new dances each week and performing them. And my best isn’t good enough. We’re losing hockey games, and our standings for the playoffs are dropping. We’re falling each week on the leaderboard as dancers too. Our scores are holding steady, but that’s not good enough when everyone is improving and raising their scores.

If this wasn’t so important to Sophie’s dreams, I’d be wishing for elimination so I’d only have to focus on hockey. But when the show is done, so is my time with Sophie, and I can’t wish away time with her. We spend every night together, even if it’s just sleeping in each other’s arms. I’ve never had that before. If I spent the night in a woman’s bed, it’s because we fell asleep after sex, and I was gone by dawn.

Glen rests his elbows on the judges’ desk and steeples his fingers. “At this stage, it’s not enough that you get the steps correct. Performance is a major component of the scores. If two dancers are on the same level in terms of skill, performance is going to tip the scale in favor of one over the other. If you’re still here next week, I hope you can find that spark again because you’re too good of a dancer to lose because of this.” He uses his index finger to point at his own face with a glum expression and rotates his wrist to draw a circular frame to emphasize his point.

Sophie gasps, and I want to, but it hurts. This is the first time our position in the competition feels in jeopardy. She tilts her head back and her worried eyes make my heart clench. I know how badly she wants this, and I feel like a loser, putting her dreams at risk because I’m overwhelmed. My instinct is to bend down and give her a reassuring kiss, but we’ve already revealed too much. Instead, I pull her flush against my body and give her another squeeze. She raises her hands and rests them on my forearms crossed over her torso, giving them a squeeze too. I think her touch is more about holding on tight out of anxiety though. I hate that.

We end up getting all eights, same as last week. But other teams are getting nines and even a ten. Staying the same isn’t good enough. We aren’t in the bottom two teams, so we avoid the stress of wondering if we’re the team to go home. I’m grateful for that. More for Sophie than for me. This is all for her.

I’m so exhausted, I fall asleep before takeoff on the red-eye to Denver. Sophie’s gentle nudge wakes me as we descend. We have a car waiting to drive us into Colorado Springs to meet the team. With the difference in time zones, it’s around one in the morning. I think. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain what day it is.

“Are you okay?” Sophie gently squeezes my hand as we walk through the jetway into the airport. “I can get us a room in Denver for tonight. The driver too. And then we can drive down to meet the team in the morning.”

I shake my head in answer to her question and to get my few working brain cells rubbing together again. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. Let’s just get to the team hotel and sleep for a while.”

We get in the car and travel the hour or so south to Colorado Springs. I doze off, so we could’ve taken a side trip to Mars and I wouldn’t have known it.

“Are you staying tonight?” Sophie asks as we get to her room. Her question is unexpected. Why wouldn’t I stay with her? We’ve been together every night for weeks.

“That was my plan. Is that okay?”

She unlocks the door, and I follow her in.

“Of course it’s okay.” After I close the door behind me and lock it, she wraps her arms around my waist, gently, and rests her head on my chest. “I’m worried about you. If you need to sleep alone to get better rest or to be more comfortable, I want you to do that.”

I run the back of my fingers down her cheek before embracing her. “I want to be here with you, Sophie. Nowhere else.”

Tears shine in her eyes but don’t fall. I’m grateful for that. She steps out of our embrace and takes my hand, turning toward the bed. We don’t have sex in deference to my ribs and exhaustion. But even without intercourse, lying together with Sophie’s hair splayed across my chest and her fingertips resting over my heart feels like the greatest intimacy I could have with a woman.

14

TREVOR

“No practice for you today,and you’re scratched for tonight’s game,” Coach tells me in the morning as we walk into the dining room for breakfast. “For your own good. I know you’re banged up and exhausted. I don’t want you to risk a more serious injury.”

“No,” I say hotly as anger courses through me. “I’m playing. I’ve scored every time we’ve played the Cryptid. We need the points for the standings. Liam, please, don’t do this.”

I almost never call Coach by his first name. It’s not how we do things. We’re friends, and he’s going to be my brother-in-law, but we keep those connections out of the rink.

Sighing, he runs his hand through his hair and looks around, leading me out of the dining room and to a pair of chairs set in a relatively private area of the lobby. We sit in the dark brown leather chairs, facing each other. Coach leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped.

“Listen, Trev, I’m doing this for your own good. I see what’s happening on the ice. You’re being targeted.”

“I can handle it.”

“There’s no doubt you’re tough and will take whatever anyone dishes out. But we can’t risk you suffering a season-ending injury because you’re too stubborn to rest. We’re off two days before our next game, and it’s at home, so you’re going to be able to sleep in your own bed instead of switching time zones constantly. You can heal. I know your ribs are aching. Are they cracked? Do you need to be seen by the team doctor?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. So I’m going to sit up in the stands, twiddling my thumbs like an asshole? Who’s taking my spot?”

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