Page 72 of Playing the Pucking Game
“As ready as we’ll ever be. It’ll be good to see if Reeves can hold his own in Linc’s absence,” Killer says, mentioning the Vipers’ second-line winger.
“I’m sorry that?—”
“Don’t be,” Handsy says firmly. “Never apologize for putting our health first.”
“You won’t be saying that when it’s you on the bench,” Killer teases.
“I’m good. And I have every confidence that Parker will keep me limber and ready for every game.”
I smile up at him. “I’ll give it my best shot,” I say as the doors part, revealing the rest of the team waiting for the buses to arrive in the foyer.
I scan the mass of bodies, and it only takes a second for my eyes to lock on a pair of familiar blue ones.
They narrow in question as I walk—or try to—between Handsy and Killer.
Linc moves closer, his eyes darting among the three of us.
“Thank you for the help, but I can take my bag from here,” I say, holding my hand out.
“I’ve got it,” Linc says, intercepting it and successfully turning all eyes on him.
“Shouldn’t you be focused on your pregame ritual right now?”
He rolls his eyes.
“How’s the foot? Bandage okay?”
I don’t look over, but I know that Handsy and Killer are exchanging a look.
“Parker,” a female voice calls, and when I glance over, I find Brooke racing toward me. “Oh my god, that was such an awesome night.”
A wide smile spreads across my mouth. “It was.”
“My head is pounding. Why didn’t I follow your lead and stop earlier?”
Someone snorts a laugh behind me—clearly someone who knows Brooke better than I do.
“Gutted we’re travelling tonight. We’re totally going out after the game tomorrow night, though, before we head home. What do you say, boys?” she asks, looking around at the players surrounding us.
“Sounds good,” Killer states. “We’re always up for a night with some bunnies. Isn’t that right, Storm?”
My breath catches in my throat. I shouldn’t care about his response or the fact that he’ll probably spend tomorrow night rolling around with some bunny.
“Damn straight. It’s been too long.”
Turning around, I glare up at him. “Contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t actually fall off if you don’t use it every night of the week.”
His lips press into a flat line. “Well, that’s good to know, considering I spent last night bandaging up your foot instead of getting any action.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
He’s about to respond, but someone calls that we’re to move out, and he turns around to head to the bus instead.
Brooke lingers, threading her arm through mine.
“What happened?” she asks, looking concerned.
“I must have stepped on some glass between the Uber and the front doors. It was nothing.”
