Page 16 of Slap Shot
“As long as you don’t knee me, I’ll be fine.”
“Is slashing okay?” he joked.
“Be sure you can take it before you dish it out.”
Oliver grinned at her. “Tough guy, huh?”
“Fuck around and find out.” She grinned back at him.
They stepped onto the ice together, and muscle memory kicked in immediately. The familiar bite of blade on ice, the subtle shift in balance, the way her body automatically adjusted to the surface beneath her feet. She'd been off skates for six months, but some things you never forgot.
"Impressive," Oliver said, watching her execute a smooth crossover turn. "You weren't kidding about the Division I experience."
"I wasn't kidding about stealing the puck, either."
They started casual, easy passes back and forth, testing each other's hands and timing. But gradually, the competitive edge crept in. Oliver's passes got a little harder, placed a little more aggressively. Heather's responses became quicker, more creative.
"One-on-one?" Oliver suggested, positioning himself at center ice.
"Best of three?"
"Deal."
He dropped the puck between them, and Heather immediately understood why Oliver was a beast on the ice. His acceleration was explosive, his control absolute. But she'd been playing hockey since she was eight years old, and instinct was a powerful thing.
She angled her body to cut off his path to the net, using her shoulder to maintain position. Oliver tried to go around her, butHeather stayed with him, their bodies coming into contact as they battled for the puck.
The contact sent electricity through her entire nervous system. Even through layers of equipment, she could feel the solid strength of him, the power in his movements. When he tried to cut inside, she hip-checked him just hard enough to throw him off balance, stealing the puck in the process.
"Dirty," Oliver called, but he was grinning.
"Effective," Heather corrected, bearing down on the empty net.
But Oliver was faster than she'd anticipated, and his reach was longer. He caught up to her just as she was preparing to shoot, his stick checking hers at exactly the right moment to send the puck wide.
They crashed into the boards together, Oliver's body covering hers as momentum carried them into the glass. For a moment, they were pressed together, breathing hard, faces inches apart. Heather could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers.
"Close," he murmured, his voice rougher than it had been a moment before.
"Very close," she agreed, acutely aware that they weren't talking about hockey anymore.
They pushed apart, both breathing harder than the exertion warranted, and resumed their impromptu game. But the contact had changed something, added an edge of awareness that made every subsequent collision feel charged with excitement.
Oliver scored first, a backhand shot that caught the corner while Heather was caught between challenging the shot and maintaining defensive position. But she answered back quickly, using her speed to get behind him and roof a forehand shot that would have made her coaches proud.
"Lucky," Oliver said, but his tone was admiring.
"Skill," Heather corrected.
They were both laughing now, the competitive fire mixing with attraction. When Oliver tried to deke around her for what looked like a sure goal, Heather managed to get her stick on the puck at the last second, deflecting it wide of the net. But Oliver's momentum carried him forward, and he crashed into her as he tried to regain control of the rebound.
This time, they went down in a tangle of equipment and limbs, but they didn't separate immediately. Oliver's weight pinned her to the ice, his face inches from hers, and Heather could see the exact moment when his awareness shifted from hockey to something else entirely.
"Heather?" he asked.
She knew what his unspoken question was. She tore off her helmet, while he yanked up his. Sitting up, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her. It was soft, hesitant, a question asked in the language of desire and stolen moments. His lips were warm despite the cold arena, and when his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, she opened for him with a soft gasp that echoed in the empty space around them. Heather could taste the wanting on his tongue, feel the tension in his body as he held her tight to him.
His kisses grew deeper, hungrier. Oliver's mouth slanted over hers as if he'd been starving for this moment. Each kiss was more desperate than the last. His hand tangled in her hair, angling her head so he could kiss her more thoroughly. Heather’s world narrowed to the solid weight of his body and the way he kissed her like she was air and he'd been drowning.
