Page 94 of Drop the Mitts

“I’m fully prepared.” André unlocked the door and shoved it open, his breath coming in quick bursts.

She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Don’t act like you’re surprised.”

Grace scanned the room. The silo was cozy—wood-paneled walls, a round bed with a ridiculous number of pillows and one of those fake fur throws. “Are we those people? We only do themed rooms now?”

André chuckled, and the second the door shut behind them, he was on her. “Do you want to be in control tonight, Grace?”

Her pulse thudded in her ears, a wild, staccato rhythm. “No,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

“Good.” His hands slid around her waist, gripping tight, and she gasped. His mouth brushed her jaw, her ear, down the side of her throat, and her knees buckled. “Let me take care of it,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

Grace didn’t realize she was shaking until he pressed her back against the wall and cupped her cheek, thumb dragging slowly across her bottom lip.

André pulled back for the briefest second, gaze locked on hers like he needed the green light. Her lips parted. Her heart screamed. “One hundred percent,” she murmured, then reached for his shirt and yanked.

That was all he needed. His mouth crashed into hers, and she was consumed by the heat of him. His weight, his scent. He kissed her like he’d earned it. Like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Her clothes disappeared—she didn’t know how, didn’t care. Every time she tried to think, his hands dragged over her skin and wiped her mind clean. She let him lift her, carry her, lay heracross the bed like she was fragile glass and then immediately prove she wasn’t.

“You always try to stay so quiet,” he whispered against her collarbone. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Chapter

Thirty-Three

André

On Saturday night,the Saddledome buzzed like an angry hive, the stands jammed past the club level with screaming fans, kids waving signs, and enough flash photography to give a man a seizure. André tightened the chin strap on his helmet and grinned as he skated past the blizzard-blue centreline. This wasn’t just a game—it was a damn show.

“Bowen, you mic’d up?” Jack Harrison circled like a smug bastard in his Blizzard jersey. André would’ve chirped, but tonight Jack washissmug bastard, so he turned to Tyler instead.

“I know all your tricks, bud. Don’t expect me to bite on those outside edges, eh?”

Tyler flipped him the bird and pointed to his helmet in response to Jack’s question, then turned back to his team on the bench for the night. The Snowballs were split fifty-fifty with the pros, and André couldn’t wait to get a good check on Country. Hopefully two.

It was Team Maddox versus Team Thompson. Country captained one side, Sean the other. Fly had suited up, much to everyone’s delight. The man’s knees looked like they’d been stitched together by a blind raccoon, but he was grinning like a kid in a candy shop.

Jenna had helped extend player invites, and she’d been right about the branding. She went for controversial picks, hot heads, and personalities. He had to give it to her. These NHL players drew a crowd.

The puck dropped, and it was pure chaos in the best way. Even though nothing was on the line, every guy out there played class A hockey. Because hockey didn’t know how to be casual.

Hockey was always a show, not in the flashy plays, not in the lights, but in the way it demanded your whole heart. The boys knew that. You laced up, you taped your stick, and you gave everything. Even in a charity game. Especially in a charity game. Because it was about more than goals. It was about the fans in the stands who paid for a night of magic.

And the guys next to him? For the next few hours, they were brothers. When you sat on the bench wearing the same crest, you belonged to each other, no matter where you came from or where you were headed next.

André crushed Country against the glass, digging with his stick. “Let me take it, bud, and I’ll be gentle.”

Country laughed, flicking the puck between his legs. “You know I like it rough.”

Every whistle, the DJ blared theme songs—AC/DC, Carly Rae Jepsen, Nickelback. During breaks, Jenna ran on-ice mini-games: kids in bubble suits racing from blue line to blue line, a “fastest shot” competition for fans with actual radar guns, and a “Guess the Face” segment where the jumbotron showed baby pictures of the players.

Country had the crowd in the palm of his hand. With a wireless mic, he hyped fans during intermissions, shouted out donors, and auctioned off a signed jersey mid-period, making jokes that had the whole arena doubled over.

“André Leclerc has volunteered to shave his legs live on stream if we hit our goal,” Jenna announced over the PA.

André leaned over the boards. “Balls! I saidballs!”

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