Page 91 of Puck Love

Eli fallsonto the bedclosest to the window. “Dude,” he says, folding his arms under his head. “What the fuck are youdoing?”

Good question. I stand in the small entryway of our suite, my bag slung over my shoulder as I stare at him. I toss my belongings on the other bed. I can’t sit down though. I’m antsy. I feel like shit, which is to be expected after a physical game, but not when we win. “You played one hell of a game,Ross.”

He’s right. I did. I had three goals and one assist. Eli had the other one, and Gagnon—the douche canoe captain—had the other. He also hogged the puck and took several shots that he could never make, but who’scounting?

Eli pulls his phone from his pocket as I pace the room. A beat later he says, “Hey, check it out. Those super fans that drove us around the last time we were in Nashville wore our numbers to the game. They tagged us on Instagram. I wonder if Stacey got . . .” Eli trails off, narrowing his eyes onme.

I’m sweating. More than I usually would this long after a game. My heart jackhammers against my ribs, and both excitement and fear churn in my gut. “I gotta go,” I say, thumbing my hotelkey.

“Oh no, no, no, no.” Eli’s off the bed and attempting to block the door, but I get therequicker.

“I have to go do . . .something.”

“Van, no! Think about this,buddy.”

I shove him away from me. “I have to see her. I need to hear hervoice.”

“How are you gonna get there? It’s not like she lives in downtownNashville.”

“I’ll get anUber.”

“I don’t like this,man.”

“Eli, I have togo.”

He shakes his head. “It’s your funeral. When Coach finds out, he’s gonna fucking killyou.”

“Cover forme.”

“Get your ass back here before the bus leaves for theairport.”

I raise my brows in confusion. “The bus leaves in fourdays.”

I don’t even know if Stella will see me, let alone invite me in for a sexy slumber party. I sure would like to fill her stocking on Christmas morningthough.

“Yeah, and I remember what it’s like when you two are in a room together. You lose your fucking heads.” Eli walks over to the mini bar, rifles through the contents, and pulls out a scotch. He doesn’t bother with a glass, just twists off the tiny cap and raises it in the air. “Merry Christmas,asshole.”

Not yet, but I’m hoping like hell it willbe.

I grin and grab my bag, flipping him the bird as I leave. I take the elevator—which is far too fucking slow—down to the lobby and I walk with my head bent low so no one will recognize me. A couple of my teammates are already drinking it up in the bar, celebrating our win. They shout to me as I walk past, but I ignore them. If I acknowledge them now, I’ll never get away, and I can see Coach is standing there, too. I have no desire to talk to him rightnow.

I head outside and pull up the Uber app on my phone, then I punch in my destination. I have only one driver willing to take the job, and judging by the sporting paraphernalia on his back bumper when he pulls up, he’s a Preds fan. Shit. I could get driven to the middle of nowhere and hacked all to pieces. I shrug.Still be worthit.

I keep my hat pulled low as I climb in and the conversation short so he doesn’t recognize me. About ten minutes into the drive, though, he asks if I live at Brentwood.Shit.

“Ah, no. I’m visiting afriend.”

“Really?” He frowns as if he doesn’t believe me. “Lot of celebrities live inBrentwood.”

“Dothey?”

“Yep. You got Tim McGraw and Faith Hill, Billy Ray Cyrus, Wynonna Judd, and . . .” He pauses. I’m pretty sure it’s for effect. “StellaHart.”

“Wow, that’s great. I’m not really into country though,” I say, and regret it instantly once he turns a murderous glare onme.

“You’re not visiting a friend, areyou?”

“Sure Iam.”

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