Page 9 of The Wingman

“It’s so good. You can borrow my copies, but you have to give them back.”

Hazel rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “He said the same thing to me. You and Hayden are a match made in heaven.”

Warmth bubbles in my stomach at her words, and I can’t help but smile. My gaze goes to him on the ice—fast, strong, and determined—and a thrill shoots through me.

Nothing would ever happen with Hayden, I know that. Kit was kind of soft-spoken, a little passive, and more on my level, but Hayden? He’s larger than life, both in looks and personality. He could have anyone.

And tonight? I’m going to start learning his ways.

CHAPTER 4

HAYDEN

With twenty secondsleft in the third period, we’re tied with Chicago.

Blood rushes in my ears as Volkov and I chase the other team’s forwards down the ice. As defensemen, we have one job: keep the puck away from our goalie.

My gaze back cuts to Darcy, where she’s sitting with Hazel and Pippa behind the net, and a rush of determination hits me.

Miller rears back for a slapshot, and as the puck sails toward the net, I hold my breath. There’s that feeling in my chest again, the one I haven’t been able to shake lately. Like something isn’t quite right.

The puck hurtles past the goalie, and the crowd explodes, roaring with noise.

“That was a beautiful play, boys,” Miller crows, wrapping me in a bulky, back-slapping hug as the goal horn bellows and lights flash around us.

I grin, laughing as Miller jostles me, but it feels forced, and then I feel like a fucking asshole for it. My team scored; I should be over the moon. We do one last face-off that lasts three seconds, the game ends, and we shuffle off the ice.

Darcy catches my eye, giving me a shy grin and wave.Pride expands through me and I wink at her through the glass. It’s nice having her here at games, watching me play and chatting with Hazel and Pippa.

The other night replays in my head, when she asked me to be her wingman. I’ve been trying not to think about it, hoping she’d forget about her request.

“Owens,” Coach Ward calls as we skate off the ice. “No postgame press for you. Meet me in my office.”

A weight thunks in my gut. If the coach wants to see you after a game? It’s not good.

“I’m putting you on offense,” Ward says, leaning back in his desk chair to regard me in that calm, quiet way of his.

I stare at him, wondering if I heard right.

Tate Ward is in his late thirties, young for an NHL coach and probably too good-looking, too, if you read the comments on Storm social media posts. A decade ago, the guy was a player for Vancouver, breaking records left and right, but after a knee injury ended his career, he went into coaching.

After a season and a half with the Vancouver Storm, he’s becoming known for taking big swings based on his instincts. With only two and a half months left in the season and a decent shot at playoffs, though, moving a player to a new position is the biggest swing he’s taken so far.

I stare at Ward for a long moment. “Until Kerrington’s back?”

One of our forwards, Kerrington, was injured in a game a couple of weeks ago.

A subtle shake of his head. “Permanently. Kerrington’s out for the rest of the season. I’m letting the team know at practice tomorrow.”

I blow a long breath out. No one likes to hear that their friend and teammate is done.

That doesn’t explain why I’m here, though. Even with Kerrington out, Ward has thirteen forwards to choose from, and I’m one of the best defensemen in the league. My brows knit together.

I’m the support guy. I’m the guy who plays well with others and thrives with Volkov, the grumpiest asshole on the team. I’m the backup muscle, not the star.

“I’ve only ever played defense,” I tell Ward.

His smile hooks higher. “Now, that just isn’t true, Owens.”

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