Page 153 of Off-Ice Misconduct
“Turns out, some people don’t leave; they kick the door down just to stay. If he’s the storm, I’m the fool who runs toward it.”
EPILOGUE
Ace
Shit.
Fuck me.
This is how I die.
We all thought I was just sailing into a happy ever after, didn’t we? But no. My life is way too dramatic for that.
Who should I call for help? Bender? Shep? East? Lars? I can’t call Dad, he’s friends with the enemy. Huh, I might be on my own for this one—maybe I should consider moving to another country?
Maybe it’s not that bad.
Ugh, who am I kidding? It’s worse. This is Luke we’re talking about. He’s gonna spank my ass.Hard.“Won’t be able to sit for a week” hard. Hmmm, but he seems to prefer using his hand over any of his many implements, and I love that fucking hand—it might be worth it. So big, and solid. The feel of it against my bare ass is some kinda magic I might never be able to explain. A language all its own. Fuck, though, it’ll have a lot to say about this.
I inspect the damage. It doesn’t cost that much to fix a window, does it? It doesn’t help that our “window” is the entire wall, and that our condo is way up high, I suppose. That’s gotta be more expensive than a lower-to-the-ground window, which is bad news for my ass.
Before Luke left, he warned me in that dark voice of his.
“McKinnon, I see it in your eyes. You’re itching to pick up a stick. Go to the rink, take a net outside, do not shoot pucks at tin cans on the mantle. Even you make mistakes.”
But the rink is too far—I’d have to get in my car and everything! And outside with a net isn’t great in this area. There’s too much traffic. Plus, if I’m being honest, it was that last comment that got me. Ace McKinnon doesn’t make mistakes, not when it comes to shooting the puck.
I’d show him. I could shoot pucks at tin cans on the mantle, and it would be fine. Frankly, it’s half his fault for saying something like that. He should know by now that shit like that eggs me on.
He caught me doing it about a week ago. Totally flipped out. I got out of that one by the skin of my teeth, with a stern talking to. For the rest of the day, he muttered about my pretty pout and letting it talk him into—and out of—things.
He wanted a house, not a condo. We both did, originally. I had dreams of a home hockey rink in the basement. Luke wanted space for a food garden, chickens, and bees. But when I saw the price of houses in the Vancouver market, I rejected on principle. It’s fucking criminal. Who’s living in this city? Gang members and the one percent?
Anyway, Luke didn’t give a fuck, because we could afford it.
“It’s a good investment,” he’d said. “And you’re way too … ambitious to be kept in a condo.”
Ambitious.Psshht.Cue my rolling eyes. He meant I’m an instrument of chaos.
This condo wasn’t cheap either, but it was way less, and I kinda wanted to see what it was like to live in the heart of downtown Vancouver.
Alright, and maybe—very much maybe—I’d heard that Rhett Elkington and his husband live in this building. Rhett plays for New York, but Vancouver’s his hometown. According to his Gram account, he spends the off-season here.
But anyway, Luke almost moved us out of here when he caught me, stick in hand, about to let loose with one of Mom’s signature slap shots. Cue the puppy-eyed pout again. Works every time.
Ugh, but probably not this time. What am I going to do?
At least I got a sick video of the whole thing. I set up my phone and ring light to film it as content to send to Beta Sigma. Even though I’ve graduated, I’ve promised to continue to submit some of my adventures as a Shadowridge alum.
I’m contemplating how I’ll start a whole new life, somewhere Luke will never find me, when a loud rap on the door interrupts my Ghost Protocol. I jump. Can’t be Luke, he has a key.
Padding over to the door, I check the peephole. There’s a thin, dark-haired man standing there.
Alright.
I swing the door open. He’s a lot shorter—and a lot smaller—than I am, but his energy makes up for it, taking up all the space. His dark eyes look me up and down, scrutinizing me before he storms into the condo—uninvited—and stalks over to my current catastrophe. I follow.
He’s a violent little tornado, dark hair remaining in its precisely cut form, the long parts swaying and then halting in place with him. The man might be thin, but he’s a wall of solid muscle, his body floats as he moves, even the force of gravity not enough to hinder him. He’s also stunning. Not handsome,but pretty. Long lashes, cut cheekbones, plump lips. Dear God. I didn’t know they made people like him in real life.
