Page 39 of The Pucking Date
Liam throws me a look. Nate yells something about needing glasses. I wave them off, try to reset.
But she’s still there. And suddenly, I’m back in that hotel room in Montreal—her back arched, mouth on mine, the sound she made when I made her come.
Fuck.
I shake it off, drop back into practice.
But the damage is done.
Because now she’s in my head again. And I can’t decide if she’s here because she’s trying to keep tabs on me or because she’s equally wrecked.
Either way, I want to find out.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the locker room that reeks of sweat, hockey tape, and pure testosterone. I’m toweling off the last of the ice when Nate drops onto the bench beside me, still damp from the rinse, towel slung over one shoulder.
“Good skate.”
“Felt good to get back out there.” I nod.
“You were flying,” Dmitri grunts from across the room, peeling off his gear. “But Tolstoy said, ‘The strongest warriors are time and patience.’ Right now, you have neither.”
“You volunteering to babysit me?” I ask, smirking.
“Nyet. I have a daughter. One chaos machine is enough.”
Wesley flops down a few stalls over, looking obnoxiously cheerful for a guy who just got skated into the boards by a Russian tank. “You were in a mood today, O’Reilly.”
“Focused,” I correct, grabbing my phone off the shelf.
“Uh-huh,” he says, voice thick with mischief. “Focused on someone whose last name rhymes with blowback?”
Dmitri barks a laugh. “Ah, yes. The one with legs for days and eyes like daggers. You still hunting?”
“Don’t worry,” Nate deadpans. “She probably doesn’t even remember your name.”
Something reckless flickers in my chest, maybe it’s Adam’s glare, maybe it’s the weeks of Jessica’s professional distance, but I’m done playing it safe. I pull up her contact, thumb hovering over call.
This is either the best idea I’ve ever had—or the worst—but I’m past caring which.
“Shit,” Wesley mutters. “He’s doing it.”
Dmitri whistles. “It’s like watching car crash in slow motion. Can’t look away.”
“She’s gonna hang up the second she hears your voice,” Nate says, grinning.
“Wanna bet?” I say, lifting the phone just as it starts to ring.
That’s when Adam walks in. Wesley, clueless and chirpy, pipes up, “Yo, O’Reilly’s finally calling Novak.”
Nate elbows him hard. “Shut it.”
Adam’s gaze snaps to my phone, then to my face. His jaw locks.
“O’Reilly.”
I flash Adam a grin that’s pure provocation. “Easy now, baby brother. Ain’t like I’m askin’ her to elope.” The lietastes bitter because part of me is already thinking that far ahead. Then I wink.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Make it your last,” but I’m already walking away from the stalls, the whole team watching.
