Page 55 of Puck Sweat Love

He snorts. “Wow. Really? Could have fooled me. I thought you were pushing forty, dude.”

I ignore him, focusing on my laces, my routine.

Routine is good. Routine will keep me centered.

I breathe in through my nose for three, then out through slightly parted lips for four, the way Steph taught me. I will not let this guy get to me…no matter how much I’d like to show him how quickly this “old man” could have his jersey shoved up his ass and plugged with a practice puck.

Stone catches my gaze as he drops his bag on my other side, rolling his eyes in a way that makes it clear he agrees engaging would only feed the troll.

I’m halfway to achieving a bit of inner peace, releasing the tension in my jaw and focusing on slowing my heartrate, whenGarcia adds, “Is that because of the pills? Did you like…look younger before?”

The air goes dead silent.

Even the rookies who were chuckling at Garcia’s shit a moment ago don’t make a fucking sound.

I go still, my hands frozen on my laces. I feel every eye on our bench on me, waiting to see how I’ll react. This isn’t just normal competitive trash talk—Garcia crossed an ugly line, and everyone knows it.

Now, I have to handle it.

Before I can decide if it’s time to teach Garcia a lesson, or if I really am Zen enough to let even shit likethatgo, Stone stands beside me, calling over my head in a deceptively light voice, “Hey Garcia. Shouldn’t you be in a stall taking that pre-practice shit you were so proud of yesterday? Seems like a better use of your time than flirting with Tank while he’s trying to get dressed.”

Garcia snorts. “What the fuck. I wasn’t flirting with anyone, least of?—”

“Right, right,” Stone cuts in with a knowing laugh. “It’s okay, buddy. Tank’s a sexy guy. I get it. I mean, look at those shoulders. They’re nice shoulders.”

I nod, my attention still fixed on my skates as I add, “And I’m flattered, man. I really am. But I’ve got a girlfriend, so…”

“Fuck you guys,” Garcia grumbles, storming away as he calls loud enough for the entire complex to hear, “I’m not gay!”

Stone tsks his tongue. “I don’t know about you guys, but I think he protests too much.”

A few of the other players chuckle, breaking the tension, and Nowicki gives me a friendly pat on the back as he starts toward the tunnel. “Good to have another adult on the team, brother.”

I nod his way, my lips curving. “Thanks. We grown-ups gotta stick together.” After Nowicki turns away, I add in a voice for Stone’s ears only, “Thanks for the save.”

“Anytime, dude,” he says. “Fuck that guy and his dumbass mouth. Let’s go wipe the rink with his weasel ass.”

“Pretty sure that’s an insult to weasels.” Cruise, our relentlessly upbeat team captain, pauses near the bench on his way to the ice, a serious expression on his face for once. He glances around before adding, “Let me know if he keeps up with that kind of crap, okay? That’s not going to fly on my team. Shit talking is one thing, but we don’t hit each other where it hurts.” His brown eyes narrow in a playful glare. “I’m also going to make sure everyone knows ageism isn’t cool. I mean, it was funny whenIteased the old guys back in the day, but now that I’m a geriatric, it’s a hell of a lot less amusing.”

“I feel you,” Stone says, holding out a fist. “Geezer fist bump.”

Cruise obliges him with a grin and we join the rest of the team on the ice. I move through my warm-up routine methodically, focusing on the scrape of my skates on the ice and the rhythm of my breathing. By the time the coaching staff arrives to start practice, I’ve regained my composure.

Mostly.

But as the morning wears on, it becomes increasingly clear that Garcia’s mind games are just the tip of the iceberg. The coaching staff seems to be working from a script, one that doesn’t include me as the starter.

Coach Lauder divides us into groups for drills, and I find myself working with the second line while Garcia gets prime position with the first. It’s subtle, but the message comes through loud and clear.

“LiBassi,” Lauder barks after I make a routine save. “Sharpen it up. You’re a half-second slow on your glove side.”

I clench my jaw and nod, not trusting myself to speak. The save was textbook, and we both know it, but arguing won’t help my case.

Ten minutes later, Garcia makes almost the exact same save, but with an unnecessary flourish that has him sprawled dramatically across the crease.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Lauder calls out. “Great extension, Garcia!”

I grit my teeth and focus on the next shot.

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