Page 73 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Still, every time my collar shifts, brushing one of the marks, heat curls through me. Because I know whose mouth put them there. And if that’s bad luck…then maybe I’ve never wanted bad luck so badly.
Daniel’s still howling, wiping at his eyes.
“I’ll buy the wings if you block those goals,” Todd adds, grinning. “But no more fucking before a game, Starling.”
I snort. I’m about to fire back when Max’s voice cuts in from across the room, calm but edged with that gruff authority that shuts guys up fast.
“It’s not factual,” he says, setting a roll of tape on the counter a little harder than necessary. “Sex doesn’t make you play worse. If anything, it can release tension and improve focus.”
Silence for a beat—then Danielloses itall over again, nearly falling off the bench with how hard he’s laughing.
Todd slaps Peter’s shoulder, both of them snickering. “Since when doesthe Grinchknow about getting laid?”
“Yeah,” Peter piles on, smirking. “That one’s rich.”
Max doesn’t look up from where he’s unrolling tape for one of the guy’s shoulders, but I catch the twitch in his jaw. “I know enough to know it’s not gonna tank his game,” he mutters, clipped.
And damn if his ears don’t go the faintest shade of pink.
Daniel lets out a cackle, head tipping back like he just hit the jackpot. “Ohhh, and how exactly would you know, Calder?”
The room erupts, the guys jeering, whooping, egging it on.
Max finally looks up, green eyes flashing. “I’ve read the studies,” he says flatly, snapping the tape between his hands.
Daniel only grins wider. “Sure, studies. That’s what we’re calling it.”
I bury my grin in my glove because if I laugh out loud, it’s over.
“The Grinch reads sex studies!” Blue howls, slapping Peter’s shoulder like it’s the funniest shit he’s ever heard.
“Secret double life,” Peter adds with mock suspicion. “All broody athletic trainer by day, undercover sex expert by night.”
Max finally looks up, and I know he’s ready to murder the whole team. “Focus on getting dressed, not my reading habits,” he growls.
Daniel just grins like a devil, raising both brows. “Sure, Calder. Whatever you say.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood, trying not to laugh.
Coach claps his hands sharply, cutting through the racket. “Alright, enough! Get your asses on the ice for warm-ups before I make you run a drive drill.”
The guys scatter, still snickering as they grab their sticks and helmets. My pulse is still thundering, but I duck my head, hiding the smile I can’t quite keep down.
Because I know the truth—Max Calder just defended my game like it was his life on the line. I reach down for my helmet, throwing a look at him before I follow my team. He meets my gaze with a warm one of his own.
For half a second, the noise of the locker room fades, and it’s just us. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t frown—just gives me this look, steady and warm, that slides straight under my ribs and stays there.
My throat goes tight. I slam the helmet down over my head before anyone else can notice, before I give myself away.
“Starling, let’s go!” Daniel yells, already halfway to the tunnel.
“Coming!” I call back, head after him, but not before one last glance over my shoulder.
Max is still watching, and when our gazes lock again, the corner of his mouth tips up. Subtle. Barely there. But it’s mine.
The second my blades hit the ice, everything else falls away. The chirping, the teasing, the looks across the locker room—it all burns off in the cold air, replaced by muscle memory and focus.
Pucks start flying during warm-ups, and I’m already dropping low, stretching high, locking into that rhythm only goalies know. Nothing gets past me. Not today.
