Page 90 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
Sarah laughed. "And this is why we love you, Kate. Only you could make violence sound so... scientific."
I was still getting used to this—being part of "the WAGs" as they called themselves, sitting in the special section reserved for players' partners during away games. When Austin had asked me to join him for the Chicago road trip, I'd hesitated. My cultures needed attention, my draft paper neededrevisions, and I'd never taken time away from work for a relationship before.
But then he'd looked at me with those damn blue eyes and said, "I sleep better when you're there," and suddenly my bacteria seemed perfectly capable of surviving without me for three days.
"There they go!" Sarah nudged me as the players returned to the ice for the second period.
I spotted Austin immediately—number 4, his powerful stride distinctive even from this distance. The way he moved was pure efficiency, no wasted motion. It made my scientist brain happy and other parts of me significantly happier.
"So, talk to me about pregame rituals," I said to Sarah as play resumed. "Austin refuses to let me watch his, says I'll think he's crazy."
Sarah snorted. "They're all certifiable. Dennis has to put his gear on left to right—left skate, right skate, left pad, right pad. Taps his stick on the ground seven times before stepping onto the ice."
"That's fascinating," I said, genuinely intrigued. "Scientists have our own versions. I have a specific sequence for setting up my microscope—counterclockwise focus adjustment first, then sample placement. My colleague Brian whistles the chorus of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' while culturing bacteria."
"See? Not so different," Sarah agreed.
I was about to respond when Austin intercepted a sloppy pass at center ice, driving forward with startling speed. My breath caught as he deked past one defender, then another, closing in on the goal.
"Holy shit, he's gonna?—"
The puck flew off his stick, sailing over the goalie's shoulder into the top corner of the net.
"YESSS!" I screamed, jumping to my feet. "DID YOU SEE THAT ANGLE OF TRAJECTORY? THE CALCULATION REQUIRED TO HIT THAT CORNER IS STATISTICALLY IMPROBABLE!"
Sarah was laughing, tugging at my jersey. "Kate! You're on the Jumbotron!"
I looked up just in time to see myself on the massive screen—wild-haired, eyes wide, hands gesturing frantically as I appeared to be explaining physics to a row of bemused hockey partners. The camera lingered for a moment before cutting away to Austin's celebration with his teammates.
"Oh god," I groaned, sinking into my seat. "I just screamed about statistical trajectories on national television, didn't I?"
"Loudly and proudly," Sarah confirmed, clinking her beer against mine. "And Austin just looked up here and winked. I'd say he approves."
Later that night, when Austin pressed me against the hotel room wall, his body still humming with post-game adrenaline and victory, I couldn't bring myself to regret a thing.
"I saw you on the screen," he murmured against my neck, his hands sliding under my jersey. "Screaming about trajectory angles."
I gasped as his teeth grazed my sensitive skin. "In my defense, it was an incredibly difficult shot from a purely physics-based perspective."
"Fuck, I love your brain," he growled, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrapped around his waist, the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against me through too many layers of clothing.
"Is this how you celebrate all your goals?" I asked breathlessly as he carried me to the bed.
Austin's eyes darkened, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Only with you."
His lips crashed into mine with bruising intensity, stealing my breath and any coherent thought. I fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt—the team's required post-game attire—suddenly furious at formal clothing.
"Too many fucking buttons," I complained, yanking impatiently until one popped off.
Austin laughed, a low rumble that vibrated through my body. "Impatient scientist," he teased, helping me push the offending garment off his shoulders, revealing the muscled expanse I never tired of exploring.
"I find efficiency sexually arousing," I informed him solemnly, my fingers tracing the defined ridges of his abdomen.
"Is that why you reorganized my sock drawer by thickness and absorbency?"
"That was for performance optimization, not sexuality," I corrected, gasping as his hands found their way under my shirt, cupping my breasts with perfect pressure. "Though the two aren't mutually exclusive."
"Only you could make sock organization sound hot," he murmured, effectively ending the conversation by tugging my shirt over my head.
