Page 63 of The One Night Dash
But the thing is? I’m not kidding.
Not even a little.
“What happened with Coach D?” Decon asks.
I give them the lowdown, but don’t mention what Dean Costello asked, because that wasn’t a team thing, that was Costello with his heart on his sleeve, and not everyone needs to see him like I do, like a once college rival, just a man who lovesthe game. Because he’s also a billionaire badass who gave me a shot. Respect.
Away gamesalways screw with the rhythm. A different hotel bed, a different arena, and even the coffee tastes off. I do my best to keep itnormal. Same playlist, same stretches, same way I tape my stick. Even the boxers.
Yes, I have half a dozen pairs, all identical. Red, with black pucks and sticks scattered all over them. Not some nasty superstition thing where I wear the same pair until they can stand on their own. Nah. I’m a professional. Pretty boy, some might say,and by some, I mean Deacon. Fresh, clean, game-day only, every time.
Coach D didn’t let me off easy this morning. After she picked me up from the airport, she hauled my ass straight to a rink outside the city. “Shake it off,” she said. Which really meant, skate until your lungs burn and your legs feel like lead. Not punishment—though it stung—but a favor. Because once I got to the hotel, the edge was dulled, the noise in my head a little quieter.
This brings me to the present.
Before I left Noelle at the hotel, I tucked a pair of those boxers into her bag.
Now, sitting in the locker room, I fire off the text.
Me
I wanted you to feel me when I’m on the ice. If you feel the same, there’s a pair of my game day boxers in your bag. No pressure. No expectations.
I set the phone down, roll my shoulders, and tell myself it’s nothing if she doesn’t reply. I tape my stick like I’ve always done, neat and tight, blade to toe. Routine’s what matters.
Then my phone buzzes.
It’s a mirror selfie.
Noelle.
In my boxers.
She’s knotted a hair tie around the waistband to cinch them, tank top bunched just enough that there’s no mistaking what she’s wearing. Her grin is soft, sweet, but there’s a spark in her eyes that shoots straight through me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, grinning like an idiot, ignoring the chirps coming from Killer and Faulker across the room.
I grab her panties—the plain black cotton ones I took off her sexy self last night and snap a short video. My palm, her underwear, and then I push them deep into the front of my hockey pants, right where I’ll feel them every shift.
Caption:Guess I’ve got my own good luck charm tonight.
The second it delivers, I shake my head, laughing under my breath.
Noelle
Um … I have no words.
Me
Wish me luck.
Noelle:
Make It Count!
Home,in Brooklyn, it’s noise and love. The kind that rattles your chest, makes the barn thrum when you touch the puck. But here? In Detroit? It’s venom. It’s louder, meaner, sharper. It’s like taking a clean open-ice hit, one of those bone-rattlers you feel in your ribs for a week.
The Detroit Diesel. Fans wear hard hats painted black and silver, and the rev of engine sounds blasts over the speakers; the whole arena shakes like a factory line at full tilt. When we come out of the tunnel, the boos crash down heavy enough to drown the music.
