Page 57 of Body Check
“Wolves,” he says, addressing us like we’re the actual animals instead of guys who play for a school with a mascot. “I’m not sugar-coating shit. We’re up by one, but Coleridge isn’t letting this game go without a fight. So cut the bullshit. We’re a team, but we’re playing like a bunch of guys who’ve never fucking met each other.”
Everybody’s favorite jokester has a serious side, and Ollie isn’t playing around tonight. His gaze drifts over the room, and then he locks eyes with each of us as he issues direct orders, calling guys out on their shit. It’s a ballsy move, but I like it. Well, I do until he pins his stare on me. “Pass the fucking puck, Wagner. You do realize you’re allowed to do that, right? Maybe nobody ever taught you that, so allow me to fill you in. If you don’t have a shot, pass the damn puck to someone who does.”
I grunt my acknowledgement because, again, he’s my captain. And I bite my tongue so I don’t tell him that if I trusted anyone else to score, I might just part with the puck. But I’m the leading scorer on this team right now, and that’s because I get the job done. I don’t hesitate, I don’t overskate, I find my shot, and I take it.
Ollie continues to pinpoint who’s playing like shit and what they need to fix, but since he’s no longer talking to me, I tunehim out. Blue elbows me, and that’s my signal to get my ass up off the bench and follow the guys out to the ice. Once play resumes, I give it my all, just like always. It has nothing to do with the fact that Bridgette’s in the stands, looking cute as hell in a BU beanie. It has nothing to do with the fact that my future team is keeping tabs on me. It doesn’t even have to do with the fact that my parents are streaming the game tonight, cheering me on from the worn leather couch in the family room. It’s just who I am. I give a hundred and ten percent every damn time, and I expect the same of my teammates. If they can’t—or won’t—deliver, I’ll give it my best and then some.
We’ve managed to maintain our lead, but with two minutes left on the clock, two things have increased: our exhaustion and Coleridge’s desperation. They’re out to prove something, because the hits are getting nastier and the insults are flying. That’s just hockey, I remind myself as I block out their chatter. Unfortunately, some guys on my team can’t help but take the bait.
And by “some guys” I mean Mickey. He’s jawing with a winger from Coleridge, and as I skate past him, I resist the urge to tell him to calm the fuck down because I know exactly how that would end. He’d be dropping gloves and taking a swing at me, and the only thing worse than getting ejected for fighting with the other team is getting ejected for whaling on your own teammate.
Besides, the whole damn team seems to have taken his side, so those guys can set him straight. I’m everybody’s favorite enemy, so why the hell am I thinking about doing the team any favors? They’re sure as hell not looking out for me.
Coleridge’s center takes a shot, but JT blocks it, sending the puck spinning down the ice. Blue’s closest to it, so he nabs it and tips it in my direction. We’ve done this same thing hundreds of times, and as I skate past the blue line, I send it right back tohim. He lags behind me a little, letting all the attention swarm around him while I head straight for my position. I could do this in my fucking sleep. We know each other so well that eye contact is a luxury, not a requirement, and I swear I can sense the exact second the blade of his stick releases the puck. Blue and I are on the same wavelength, and everybody else out here is a step behind. Ollie’s eyes go wide as the puck zips past him. As soon as it’s in my sights, I go for it, barreling toward the net before anyone can catch me. Their goalie thinks he’s got my number. He’s ready and waiting to deflect anything I send his way. The poor bastard hasn’t been paying attention, though. Or maybe he just isn’t aware of the motivational speech my captain just gave me in the locker room. With practiced ease, I shoot my puck in the exact direction I want it to go. And, as usual, the puck obeys. It glides across the ice, and I swear there’s a magnet drawing it to Blue’s waiting stick. By the time Coleridge’s team has figured out Blue’s got possession, the puck careens across the crease, under the goalie’s left leg, and straight into the back of the net.
Blue’s goal was the point we needed to secure the win, and I was just following orders. My captain told me to pass the fucking puck, and I did. If these guys want to act like Blue and I are barely on the team, they can. We did just fine on our own tonight.
After the buzzer announces the end of the game and our victory, we pile back into the locker room. You’d think the win might bring the team together, or get these stubborn assholes to realize just how much they need us, but you’d be wrong. If anything, Mickey looks even more pissed than he did earlier. A couple guys pat Blue on the back, but I’m not surprised when they don’t include me. I’m on the periphery and that’s fine by me. I was never going to be the most popular guy on the team, but Mickey still doesn’t trust me, and a lot of the guys are following his lead.
But that’s okay. She’s worth it.
That’s never been up for debate, but when I walk out of the locker room to see her standing in the hall, waiting for me, my heart literally stutters. She’s stunning. And she’s mine. I let the door swing shut behind me and walk straight toward her, my lips finding hers before I even say hello. Bridgette clasps her hands at the back of my neck, deepening our connection, so she clearly doesn’t mind that I’m not using my words right now.
When we come up for air, she smiles at me, and my heart does that same skip-a-beat thing.
“I love watching you play,” she says. “I mean, yeah, I used to boo you, but now I think I might be your biggest fan.”
“You just want to get into my pants,” I tease. “No need for flattery, Dove. I’ll drop ‘em right here,” I say, my hand moving to the drawstring on my sweats.
“Maybe we should hold off on the public nudity,” she advises. “And while getting into your pants is one of my favorite things to do, I’m serious. When you were on the ice, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”
I’m not sure why, but her words take me by surprise. I’ve never been with anyone who actually likes the game. My ex-girlfriends liked my, uh…athleticism, and they all seemed to like dating a hockey player, but not a single one ever mentioned the actual game or my style of play. “I figured that when you were growing up, you probably got stuck watching enough hockey to last a lifetime.”
She just shrugs. “I never minded. It was always fun to watch Bran, too. There’s something about watching a person in their element. Like tonight, when you scored the goal in the middle of the first period? That was incredible. And when you passed the puck to Blue without a glance, like you just instinctively knew where he was? That’s the kind of hockey that’s so much fun to watch.”
“I’m glad you were here,” I tell her honestly. She’s been to a few home games this year to watch Mickey play, of course, but tonight is the first time she’s here for me, and we don’t have to keep any secrets or sneak around. It feels damn good to be here with her, out in the open, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind that we’re together.
Although there is one thing that’s bugging me.
Trailing my hand up her arm, I pluck at the fabric of her sweatshirt. “Just so you know,” I tell her, holding her gaze, “I’m over this shit.”
Bridgette giggles, totally ignoring my grumpy attitude. “What shit is that?” she asks. “Are you really going to complain that I’m wearing clothes in public? It’s kind of a requirement. Don’t you remember the ‘no public nudity’ rule I made a few minutes ago?”
“Nope, never heard of it. And it’s not just that you’re wearing a shirt, it’s that you’re wearing this shirt,” I tell her, plucking at the offending shirt one more time. “That’s the shit I’m talking about. You with another man’s name on your back.”
Bridgette runs her hands down my chest as she laughs at me. “You do realize that’s also my name, right?”
“Not for long,” I mutter, unable to stop myself.
“What did you say?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“I said we need to get out of here so you can take this shirt off before I tear it off.”
Pressing a kiss to my cheek, she threads her fingers through mine. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Two days later, I see an opportunity, and I take it. There might be tension between Mickey and me, but I know I can’t fix thatshit overnight. It’s going to take time, and it’s only going to work if I can get Mickey to trust me.
That’s a tall order, but I’m not one to run from a fight. Right now, though, there’s something I can do to make Bridgette happy, to let her know without a doubt that she belongs to me, and I belong to her, and I don’t care who knows it.
