Page 3 of Playing the Pucking Game
“I’m done here,” I say, lifting my glass from the bar and walking away.
I make it four steps before everyone around me begins counting down.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
I look around the room at the couples and groups of friends excited to welcome in a new year.
I understand why the Vipers are happy. They’re having their best season in years. There is a very good chance that this is going to be the first time in almost a decade that they make it to the playoffs.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Fletcher has his arms around his wife Reese’s waist. Kodie is gazing into Casey’s eyes.
The other couples on the team are ready.
Four.
Three.
Two.
And I’m standing here with only my drink to celebrate with.
Fuck. I hope Casey is right. I hope next year is my year.
One.
Cheers erupt as kids pull party poppers, shooting confetti everywhere. I’m about to lift my drink to my lips in a private celebration with myself when a hand wraps around the back of my neck.
Before I know what’s happening, a warm pair of lips presses against mine.
It takes me a second for my brain to catch up, and the second it does, I raise my glass higher and dump the contents all over Lincoln Storm’s head.
“The fuck, Donnelly?” he barks as my Jack and Coke soaks his hair and runs down the sides of his face.
“Happy New Year, Storm. It can only get better from here.”
He stares at me, his eyes wide with disbelief, his chest heaving. He shouldn’t look as good as he does right now with my drink dripping from his chin, soaking his white button-down.
Amusement explodes inside me, but I smother it, the slight tugging at the corners of my lips the only evidence.
His gaze darkens as his jaw tics.
My heart pounds harder, unable to drag myself from his intense stare.
He’s the only thing I can see. The party and celebrations around us cease to exist as we both wait to see what the other is going to do next.
We’re at a standoff, one I desperately need to get away from.
Lincoln Storm is dangerous. He always has been.
