Page 25 of Misconduct Zone

As soon as the clock releases me, I am determined to score. We read each other’s minds, and it takes fifteen seconds for me to find the back of the net and put us in the lead again.

We are all playing to our fullest abilities. This is not a game we can coast through. Our defense and Liska shut down all their shots, but we do not score again. With five seconds left on the clock, their left wing takes a shot from outside the circle, but our defender is in Liska’s line of vision so he does not have enough time to react to stop the puck.

They tie the game, and we go into sudden death overtime. Coach sends the second line out for the face-off. They win and our defense isn’t prepared for their speed. Liska blocks a shot but can’t clear the puck, and in a scramble, it slides into the goal.

I am stunned. We should have won the game.

The mood is somber, and I am forced to do the official press conference. One reporter asks me if I think my penalty cost us the game since they scored. I almost say “Din jävla arsle!”and then “fuck off” so they will know what I think of the question.

But with years of training and Finn’s lectures in mind, I say, “We win and lose as a team. I made mistakes, as did others. We will watch the film and get better.”

Liska grunts when asked almost the same questions. “Ve are a team and vork together to vin. I am proud of how our men played.” His scowl and thick accent convey his anger.

Returning to the locker room, one glance at a half-dressed Dylon has me fleeing to the private showers. This will be a problem for me.

Dylon did not distract my game tonight, but under the cold spray, I count the days and hours after our next road game until we can return home, away from the prying eyes of our team. It is the nature of a team—we live in close proximity and know each other’s business.

Jamal King sneezed, and his roommate bought him Emergen-C, not wanting to risk him getting sick. We take care of each other but also gossip like little old ladies. The puck bunny stories get told and exaggerated each time. Liska gets lots of curious questions about his relationship with Trevor. I do not want that type of scrutiny.

I want to take Dylon home, lock the door, and hoard him for myself for days.

Chapter 15

Dylon

“Five,” I count as my eyes fixate on a bead of sweat trickling down Lars’s temple as it disappears behind his ear. My tongue peeks out as if it will be allowed to taste it.

“Six,” I say and can hear Benz counting for Liska as the entire team works out in the weight room. Important information to remember—we aren’t alone.

“Seven.” Lars pumping iron is the best kind of torture. His crisp, clean scent mixes with his sweat, becoming sharper, more potent, and oddly sweeter. The compulsion to lick him is strong, but as a trained athlete, I’ve mastered my bad impulses. Mostly.

Road trips are one of my favorite parts of pro hockey, but this trip sucks balls. Losing two games in a row creates a fear of failure and dread. This is not how we expected the trip to go. Rows and rows of equipment are the same as in our practice facility but laid out slightly differently. The cushy rubber floors sometimes vary in color, but otherwise it’s the same old, same old.

“Eight.” Lars is the true chaos in my brain. In an effort to act normal, I’ve been a complete flake, talking about reading animal encyclopedias as a kid and working at my uncle’s bar at age twelve. No one cares, but it’s like I’ve become a cartoon character of myself, hiding my feelings for Lars by talking nonsense to convey “nothing to see here.”

“Nine,” I say, and Lars grunts, close to finishing his third set. My body reacts, and it’s the last straw in holding on to my sanity.

“Ten.” Our fingers touch as I help him guide the bar back in place. “Hey, team building exercise to break the losing streak curse. We’re switching workout partners.” The guys will not argue about snapping our losing streak. It’s only two games, but hell, I’m half hard, and if I spot Lars any longer, it’s going to get embarrassing.

Lars glances at my plumped-up dick and leaps off the bench. “Great idea. Grab someone from a different line.”

Benz sidles up next to me, and I up nod to the next piece of equipment. Some guys grumble about this being ridiculous.

“You guys wanna win or not?” Ace growls, and I appreciate him having my back.

I think my plan is genius until Lars leans over King, spotting him. Emotion spikes through my system like adrenaline, and I’m surprised by my jealousy. It’s what I felt the first time I saw them together. Back then, I couldn’t name it. It has no place in this room, on this team, or in my life, but tell that to the green-eyed, furious monster ready to tear them apart.

“You good?” Benz asks.

I shake my head to right my mind, but his raised eyebrow gives the impression I’ve answered the question. “Yeah. All good. Just trying to rid myself of negative thoughts with an actual shake,” I blurt out half the truth.

“We’re playing great hockey.” He lifts the bar, and I count.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “But all the lines aren’t gelling.” I don’t miss how his eyes cut over to Richardson. “Sometimes we have to count on people we wouldn’t give the time of day outside of the rink.”

“Everyone thinks a goalie is an island working by themselves, but we have to trust the D-line to be in position and have puck awareness. We can’t do that if we’re worried about our defenders.” He continues to lift.

The goal the other night is an example of what he’s talking about. “Does Liska trust the D?”

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