Page 59 of Much Ado About Hockey

He couldn’t tear his eyes from her – and Karen was strong enough for the both of them. She leaned forward, gave him a quick kiss, and patted his cheek. “Put your helmet on. I like your pretty face…”

And he laughed, backing away and shoving his helmet on his head.

“This win is for you, Wife!” he yelled out to Karen – and the crowd went wild.

Karen’s face was illuminated with a light from the inside that shone from her like a beacon. He loved that woman, cherished the fact that they could be crazy together, and then heard her voice above the others.

“JETT, I WANNA HAVE YOUR BABY!”

“YOU GOT IT, NUTELLA!”

He skated into place – and saw several faces turn to look at him, all with the same look.

“Nutella?” Coeur asked pointedly as Salas shook his head.

“You know the running of the bulls is in Pamplona, Spain – not Barcelona.”

“Seriously?” Boucher chimed in, waiting. “BarcelonaandNutella? What’s wrong with you? Did you take a puck to the head?”

“It’s our thing,” Jett shrugged, looking at his team, his friends, and the men he considered his brothers on the ice. “My thing is notyourthing – and it’s sure bigger than any of their ‘things’…” he continued, turning to goad the other team as the chirping began.

“FOCUS!”

He heard Savage’s yell, moved into position… and grinned.

Time to goad the man and have a little fun!

“We’re focused and got this, Captain Pimples!” Jett hollered – and waited for the ax to fall. Sure enough, he didn’t have to wait long as Coeur, Boucher, and Salas began laughing.

The reaction from the other team was wilder. One of the guys actually slipped and fell. He could even hear a few chuckles coming from Larsson, who was manning the goal in the distance. Yep, his voice carried across the ice… and the other team was in chaos.

“What’d he say?”

“No, he didn’t…”

“He called his captain… Captain Pimples?”

“It’sPamplona, you idiot – notpimples…” Salas grunted.

“Puck?” Jett hissed quickly under his breath, sharp and low, just loud enough for his teammates to hear, snapping them back to the reality of the game. It was a growled reminder of why they were on the ice—to win.

The other team was still chuckling, shaking their heads in disbelief, caught off-guard by the newest moniker they’d slapped on the Wolverines’ captain—Captain Liam ‘Pimples’ Savage. It was juvenile, sure, but it had hit its mark and was working just as designed.

The opposing team was off-balance.

He was the chirpingkingof the ice.

The referee barely hesitated before dropping the puck, the black disk spinning like fate between the skates of distracted players.

Boucher didn’t wait.

He shot forward like a missile, laser-focused, his blade carving into the ice with the fury of purpose. In mere seconds, the puck was behind the goalie and in the net.

Clean.

Fast.

Beautiful.

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