Page 31 of Rush the Edge

No one expects it. I keep everyone at an arm’s length, so they only get the aloof version of me, the one that acts unbothered, without nerves, especially while on the ice.

Sure, I let my temper fly, but that isn’t much of a surprise to anyone in the league.

To know that I have an entire routine the night before a game because I’d do anything to win would be a total mind-fuck to the press. I rarely let anyone in on my habits. Malaki learned the hard way, walking in mid jumping jack, which is exactly why he isn’t home right now. If you’re present during my night-before-a-game regimen, you have to participate.

I don’t make the rules.

I apparently don’t make the rules when it comes to Daisy either.

The music thumps loud, but it’s still not loud enough to drown out the thoughts from earlier in the locker room.

I can’t believe I let her get under my skin like that. I may have won our little tiff, but the lasting effects of having her so close are lingering. It pisses me off and excites me at the same time.

After discarding my shirt to the floor, I turn the music up even louder. I have the entire apartment to myself with Malaki out, and with River on night shift, I don’t care how loud it gets.

It won’t bother anyone, except Daisy, which seems like a perk if you ask me.

And chances are, after earlier, she won’t dare knock on my door to curse me out.

Or will she?

Fuck, stop thinking about her.

“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…”

With each drop in the bass, I do another jumping jack.

One hundred and thirty-three. Every night before a game.

Some of the drills, or“superstitions” if you’re in the mood to piss me off, have disappeared over the years, but there are a few that have stayed, like the jumping jacks, stepping onto the ice with my left skate, the hair tie around my wrist for games, and the way that I tape my stick. Those are some of the oldest ones in the book, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop them.

Whether I feel as if I have proven myself or not.

“Forty-three, forty-four…”

A bead of sweat drips over my nose as I stare out at the skyline. The skyscrapers are half-lit, looking more like golden stars than buildings. The city grows more awake as the evening goes on.

I wonder if Daisy is even home.

I growl.

Maybe it’s time to reintroduce an old tradition just so I can get her off my mind.

I scoff mid-jump.

Going to the club the night before a game is never a good idea, and I never frequent the same woman twice, so if they ever give me their number, I trash it immediately.

The bass drops again, and I focus on the jumping jacks.

I mentally go over some of the line changes we made for tomorrow’s game and run through the plays so intently that I almost don’t hear the rattling of my door from across the apartment.

There’s a fleeting sense of exhilaration with the thought that it may be Daisy, but surely she doesn’t want to come face to face with me after earlier.

Swiping my shirt off the floor, I wipe it over my sweaty browline and drape it over my shoulder. Without looking at who it is, I swing the door open. Color me surprised when it’s none other than Daisy standing there in what I assume to be pajamas. There’s a line of anger in between her eyebrows that’s fucking adorable as she pairs it with her mouth set in irritation.

“Are you kidding me?!” she shouts.

No bra?

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