Page 35 of Puck Sweat Love

Before I second guess the instinct, I pull out my cell, calling the woman who’s been living rent free in my head since the first time she guided me into downward facing dog.

Steph answers on the second ring with a husky, “Hello, mister. I was just thinking of you.”

“Yeah?” I ask, spirits lifting simply from hearing her voice. “Good things, I hope.”

“Very good,” she murmurs. “I’m in the bath, actually. With some candles. And some…impure thoughts.”

“I can be over in five minutes,” I rumble, making her laugh.

“A part of me would love that,” she says, pausing a beat before she adds, “but a part of me wants to take things slow, if that’s okay?”

“No rush,” I assure her. “And no pressure from me.”

“I know,” she says. “You’re not a pressuring kind of guy. So, what have you been up to tonight?”

“Just dinner with a friend,” I say. “And thinking of you. I was wondering if you might be able to get away on Saturday afternoon. I know you have classes, but there’s a thing I’d like to take you to.”

“A thing?” she echoes.

“A fun thing,” I add. “A thing I think you’ll enjoy, but it’s an hour south and only from noon to six on Saturday.”

“I’m intrigued, and I like fun things. How about I get a sub for my afternoon classes and you can pick me up at the studio at eleven fifteen?”

My heart lifts again. “Sounds good. See you then.”

“Hopefully, I’ll see you before then, too,” she says. “For class tomorrow night and maybe lunch on Thursday? My treat? Mr.Sniffles wants to take you to his favorite taco hut before they close for the summer.”

“Tell Mr. Sniffles I’d love that,” I say, my smile clear in my voice.

“Yay, he’ll be thrilled,” she says. “Good night, Theodore. Excited to see you tomorrow.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Goodnight, Teach.”

Hanging up, I pocket my phone and take a deep breath of the evening air. It’s been a helluva week and a half—from being trapped in that equipment room and my rigid status quo to a kind of flow and ease I haven’t felt in years. For the first time in a long time, I’m not overthinking every move. I’m just here. Now. Looking forward to whatever comes next.

As I round the corner to the parking lot, my step is light. I’m not expecting anything negative. I certainly don’t expect to find a weasel cooking up a scheme to stab me in the back.

I don’t know for sure that Garcia is scheming aboutme, but he’s definitely scheming. And he’s absolutely a weasel. I suppose there could be an innocent explanation for the furtive-looking conversation he’s having near the arena exit with Jim Hartley, assistant to the GM, but I can’t imagine one.

And I already know Jim isn’t my biggest fan.

Jim doesn’t believe in “leopards changing their spots,” a fact he made sure to share with me after I was offered a contract against his advice. He pretended he was open to being pleasantly surprised, but he’s not fooling anyone, especially me.

Watching them from the corner of my eye as I cross to my bike, I tell myself this could be nothing, but the intensity of the conversation says otherwise. Garcia looks like he’s in the middle of a hard sell.

Selling himself as starting goalie, perhaps?

A beat later, Hartley nods, looking impressed, and reaches out to shake Garcia’s hand.

My good mood cools, replaced by that familiar edge I’ve carried with me for years—the knowledge that nothing comes easy, not in this world, not in this game.

Not for men like me.

But I’ve worked too hard to get back to the NHL, pushed through too much pain and regret to let some status-hungry kid derail me now. My thoughts drift briefly to Stephanie, to a wise thing she said in class about not getting sucked into a story without evidence, before snapping back to the scene in front of me.

This isn’t a story.

This is my life, my future

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