Page 15 of Puck Lust

My eyes flick to my right where Jack flies across the ice, his eyes glued to the guy in front of him. He gets the puck, whips around, and passes it cleanly to the next guy. When he looks up, his gaze tangles with mine.

“VK, wake up out there,” Coach bellows, jolting me. “You just missed the pass from Masterson.”

Fuck.

But Jack doesn’t lose a second. He’s already off, moving swiftly to the back of his line, again focusing solely on the guy ahead of him.

It’s like he’s a completely different player today than he’s ever been.

I remember when we’d run drills back in our junior hockey days. He was always doing his own thing, half-paying attention, more focused on showing off and perfecting his moves against the direction of the coaches. But nobody ever batted an eye because, hey, he was Jack Larson, hockey player extraordinaire.

It was total bullshit but everyone knew we needed him to win championships.

The practices with Oakland leading up to our first game were a lot like that, too. He wasn’t as much of a dick with the puck, but it was enough to piss off the team. There was plenty of trash talk at The Penalty Box that followed those sessions.

And after that first game, his ears must’ve been ringing like church bells.

I guess he wasn’t lying when he said Enver really laid into him after that loss against the Renegades.

The rest of the practice session goes the same way. He’s locked in, doesn’t even look my way again.

I try to convince myself I don’t care, just like I’ve tried to make myself believe that the image of him all soaped up in the shower isn’t the reason I woke up with morning wood in my hand today.

“Make those passes clean,” Enver shouts. “Watch Larson.”

And I don’t know who on the ice is more shocked at the ad hoc accolades, but Enver’s right. Jack’s passes are crisp, sharp, and perfectly timed.

The old Jack would have tried to steal the show and try to dangle through the defenders himself. And when he passes to me, I barely react in time to send it back to him.

Jack stops right in front of me, a smirk dragging his lips upward. “Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

“Yeah, so I hear.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Then stop daydreaming and get in the game.”

My jaw nearly hits the ice.

“Okay,” Enver calls out after a sharp whistle blow. “Let’s try some two-on-one drills. VK on defense, Larson and Masterson offense.”

He blows the whistle again. It echoes loudly, rattling my ears.

I prepare for the play and for a second, it looks like the old Jack is breaking through. He tries to toe-drag around me, but I see the move before it happens and poke the puck away from him.

“Gotta try harder than that,” I say.

Jack just laughs as he circles back around for a second attempt. I lean forward, shifting my weight, ready for his next move.

He fakes me out with one of his showboat moves, the move I anticipated, and dishes the puck back to Masterson, who whacks it into the net.

Jack gives Masterson a high five, a shit-eating grin on his face as he circles me, kicking up snow as he makes an exaggerated stop.

He pulls off his helmet and closes the space between us, gold flecks making his green eyes glow under the bright overhead lights. “Working harder was never your problem, VK,” he murmurs under his breath. “Second-guessing yourself was.”

I almost choke on a breath as he skates away.

Thefuck?

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