Page 6 of Lucky Laces
Sooner or later everyone will see through me.
And then I’ll lose everything.
“Christ,”I mutter as I sink onto the step, chest heaving after having chased Rome up and down the aisles of the practice facility’s stairs.
Our captain is a psychopath.
But he’s not wrong that this shit is a killer workout.
Though,hecalls it a warmup.
See?Psychopath.
Likely because he got into the habit of running the stairs at his old team, the San Francisco Gold, and doing beside a woman who moves like liquid lightning.Brit Plantain was the first female player in the league and though she’s rumored to finally be retiring (for good, this time) at the end of this season, she is still incredibly talented.
Of course, she’s also responsible for this special brand of hell coming to my team.
So, I might need to give her a piece of my mind the next time I see her.
“Christ is right,” King says as he collapses next to me.“Why did we think this was a good idea to do before practice?”
“Because,” Cam says dropping down next to us, his next words all but gasped out, “thatone”—a nod at Rome who’s so used to this shit that he’s already finished, caught his breath, and is currently smirking at us as he stretches—“is insane.”
“Also known asin shape,” Rome jokes, his smile nonplussed as he bends his leg behind him and grabs his ankle, stretching out his quad.
Hell.
My quads.
They’re toast.
After the workout yesterday and the run today…I’m going to be hobbling my ass into bed tonight.
If I make it through practice, that is.
My stomach starts churning at the thought, all those Xs and Os and arrows swirling through my head like one of those really obscure abstract pieces of art dumbass rich people buy.
Unfortunately, they don’t swirl into anything that makes sense.
“Are we getting beers after practice?”Rome asks.
“Isn’t Chrissy like eight million years pregnant?”Cam teases, pushing up to his feet with a grunt and starting his own stretching routine.“I’m surprised she lets you out of the house.”
Rome rolls his eyes—likely because he’s beyond done with being teased about knocking up the owner’s daughter.
But hockey is about seventy percent skill and thirty percent giving each other shit, so he’s not going to be in for a reprieve from the teasing any time soon.
Especiallybecause he knocked up the owner’s daughter.
I grin, having sufficiently caught my breath enough to push up to my feet, and start stretching my own legs.
But my grin fades almost as quickly.
Because…how much shit will I be in for if the guys find out I can’t even read a fucking tablet screen?
“Come on, fuckers,” Rome grumbles as he turns for the locker room, calling over his shoulder, “It’s almost time for practice.”
A practice I’m not prepared for.
