I already fucking know the team is gonna love her. That’s the fucking problem. Because I also know how they are.
They’ll flirt.
They’ll mess around.
And I have no goddamn right to be mad about it.
Fuck.
I shove the thought down, watching the team move into drills. The ice, the game—this is where my focus should be.
Not on her.
Not on the fact that she never looked back.
Not on the fact that it’s already driving me insane.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Asher
Practice has been brutal.
Leo’s been on a fucking warpath, pushing us so hard this week that I swear I wake up sore in places I didn’t even know existed.
Every muscle in my body aches. My legs feel like lead. My shoulders are stiff as hell. Even the simple act of rolling out of bed in the morning has turned into a goddamn battle.
So yeah. I needed this. Ford needed this, too.
Which is why, this morning, I shot a quick text to our ol’ reliable puck bunny.
Now she’s between us, Ford at her back, my hands gripping her waist. Her breath is ragged, her body taut, sharp little cries tearing from her throat.
Ford mutters something low under his breath, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, his fingers digging in. She shudders, clinging to both of us?—
She’s close. So fucking close.
“Fuck,” Ford mutters, voice low, strained, wrecked.
He huffs a breath, his grip on her tightening as he pulls her even closer against him, making her gasp.
“She’s good,” he mutters. “Real fucking good.”
She’s right there, teetering on the edge…
And then?—
“Oh my god,” a female voice blurts. “Oh my actual fucking god!”
I turn my head and holy fucking shit. A woman stands there, wide-eyed, mouth open, frozen in absolute horror.
Not just any woman—blonde hair in a high ponytail, toned legs in tiny shorts, a matching tank hugging perfect tits.
And the bluest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen, staring straight at us.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Cheeks crimson, fingers on the doorframe like she’s debating running or passing the fuck out.
“Oh my god,” she whispers again, voice shaking.