Page 75 of Skate the Line

I shake my head. “No, but he is a great asset to the team. He’s a damn good goalie.”

He nods. “It’s the nanny, then?”

I make a grave mistake and dart my eyes away, as if he’ll be able to read the scandalous thoughts in my head.

“I trust her,” I admit. “I can focus on the game because I know Ellie is safe, and I know she’s not going to dip out on my daughter because her feelings are hurt that I’m not fucking her.”

His abrupt laugh fills the room. “Jesus…well…” He rubs his hand over his face. “Hang onto her, then, and don’t fuck it up. Between signing Olson, your sudden focus on the ice, and working out the kinks between the rest of the team, we’re looking good.”

My fingers tingle.

He’s right.

Winning a game sends fire into every one of our bloodstreams. We’re competitive and determined, and that’s the recipe for a powerhouse team. It’s refreshing being able to concentrate on the game for once.

I leave his office and finish lacing up. Noise from the crowd slips into the locker room, and my blood sings.

I check my phone before heading out onto the rink for warm-ups, and my breath catches. There’s a text from Sunny. It’s a photo of Ellie in her Blue Devils jersey, hair woven in two perfect braids with little blue bows hanging from the ends. She has my number painted on her face in blue paint.

I grin and swipe out of the photo, only to be punched in the gut with another.

It’s a selfie of the two of them.

My stomach tightens just as tight as my grip on the phone.

Their faces are smashed together, and they’re both lit up like fucking fireworks. Bright eyes, dazzling smiles, and flushed cheeks.

God damn.Sunny truly is a ray of fucking sunshine.

Between her warm eyes, tiny dimples on her cheeks, and killer smile, I start to feel like I’m staring at the sun instead of a photo of my daughter and her nanny.

I quickly exit out of the photo and toss my phone in my locker. I follow my teammates out onto the ice and will myself to focus.

The Flames are driving me up a fucking wall.

I like to think of myself as a man with restraint, but if one more red jersey pounds into me and sends me flying into the glass, I may break my fucking stick over their head.

“Fuck you.” Barret, one of the Flames’s best players, cuts in front of me and tries to steal the puck.

I fling it toward Malaki and ignore the chatter. I slip to the left and then to the right, my feet moving over the ice like I was born to skate.

I follow Malaki, tossing the puck back and forth. We’re tied 1-1.

One minute left in the second period.

It’d be a nice touch to score a goal before we head into the locker room and make adjustments for the last period.

Kane rushes to the ice, sending Hayes back to the bench. I grip my stick and pick up the pace. The puck slips out from under Kane’s stick.

“Gavno,”I grunt.

Alexeyev, a Flames player born and raised in Moscow, growls before trying to throw an elbow into my chest.

I move behind the net, where most players aren’t comfortable, and turn and put my back toward him.

We’re a good match. Tall, strong, and fucking fast.

The puck jolts to the right, and I have it pressed against the wall.

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