Page 35 of Pucking Off-Sides With My Brother's Best Friend

Chapter seventeen

Aiden

“Fuck,” I grunt, spittingblood as I haul myself up from the ice. Our opponents aren’t just playing hard—they’re out for blood. Each hit feels personal like they’re trying to carve their names into my bones. But they don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’ve been knocked down my whole life, and I always get back up.

But I can’t wait to ice myself down and fall into a soft bed. The only thing that would make it even better is having Aurora fussing over me like she has after a particularly grueling practice.

The thought of Aurora’s gentle hands and concerned eyes sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with this game.

Christ, when did I start being all consumed by her like this?

The thought of her brings a smile to my lips and gives me a boost of energy. I’m not going to lie. Having her here would make this first away game even better, but I can comfort myself with the knowledge that we’re two goals ahead with only a couple of minutes left of gameplay. I shake my head, trying to dislodge thoughts of soft skin and warm smiles. I’ve got a game to win.

“Get your ass back in the game, Weller!” The shout from coach shakes me from my thoughts, and I push off the wall, ready to make my annoyance someone else’s problem. Even with our lead, I’m not comfortable just coasting into a win. I charge into the final minutes like a man possessed. Every muscle screams, but I push harder, faster. The puck becomes an extension of my stick, my body a weapon honed for this moment. I weave through defenders, their attempts to stop me barely registering. The goal looms ahead, a beacon in the chaos.

Seconds tick down. The crowd’s roar fades to white noise. It’s just me, the ice, and destiny.

The whistle pierces the air, sharp and final. For a heartbeat, everything freezes. Then it hits me - we’ve done it. Our first away game, our first away win.

A primal yell rips from my throat, part triumph, part release. I’m swept up in a tidal wave of teammates, all of us howling our victory to the rafters. In this moment, nothing else exists - not my father’s criticism, not my doubts, not even Aurora. Just pure, unadulterated euphoria.

“How does that win taste?” Tony asks as he clashes helmets with me. His grin is wide and manic, and I feel my own answer. Thrilling isn’t even the word to use. How I feel is beyond fucking compare.

“Tastes like fucking heaven, baby!” A win is a win, and I’m going to celebrate that shit hard with my team. We fought for this, and we succeeded.

When we’re back in the locker room, Jax slams a hand on my shoulder. “That last hit was clean as fuck. I guarantee that one is going on the replay cycle.”

“He fucked around and found out,” I agree with a sharp grin.

The aches and pains are nothing in the face of victory. That shit has me feeling higher than a good fuck.

It’s not until we’re back in our street clothes and the press comes around that I feel the first tendrils of dread. I’ve played a good game—great even—but I know exactly how the conversation will go with my father. I want to put that shit off as long as possible.

“Nah, you aren’t allowed to look like that when we won,” Sebastian says from beside me. He pulls his shirt over his head, making his hair stand up before bumping our shoulders. “The next twenty-four hours are all about celebrations and maybe some puck bunny ass. Whatever is making your face look like that can fucking wait.”

Jax catches my eye, and I know he can tell exactly what my long looks are all about. Jax knows all about my shit-stirrer ofa dad. Hell, he’s been around for a couple of great examples of my father’s ‘A-plus’ parenting. My sour mood shouldn’t be a surprise to him.

“He’s right,” Jax speaks up. “We played hard, and we fought for this shit. No one is allowed to look like they sucked on sour patch kids for at least forty-eight hours.”

That surprises a huff of laughter out of me. “Forty-eight hours, huh?” I parrot with a raised eyebrow. “That’s the rule we’re going with?”

“For you? Yes,” Jax confirms with a firm nod. “Two games played; two games won. We’re on a fucking streak.”

I don’t think we can really call two games a streak, but I’m not about to argue with Jax when he looks that determined. And anyway, I don’t want to. I want to celebrate this win as much as the next fucking person, and I goddamn deserve to.

I take out my phone before I can have second thoughts and turn that shit off. I’m not foolish enough to think that will be enough to keep my father from making comments at some point, but I refuse to deal with his criticism right now.

Not when I’m in such a good mood. Plus, I refuse to let my shit bring down the rest of the team. If they want to celebrate, celebrate we will. I’m not about to be the fucking downer of the group. Not when we’ve come so far as a team.

It’s not until we’re all at a bar that I realize I’ve played right into Jax’s hand. The two of us have been volunteered to grabdrinks for everyone at the table, though when Jax turns to me, expression serious in a way that isn’t familiar, I know it’s a trap.

“So, have you heard from your dad lately?”

I wasn’t expecting him to go straight in for the kill so soon. I guess he feels he’s given me enough time to relax, and now it’s time to get serious. I glance over my shoulder, making sure the rest of the team is occupied and not listening in on our conversation. I don’t need multiple people up my ass about my dad’s shitty ways.

“Yeah,” I concede. “I talked to him a couple days ago. Hadn’t planned on it, but you know how he is.”

“I do. That’s why I know he’s probably going to call you tonight if he hasn’t tried already.”

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