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Chapter Four: Back on the Ice

After two weeks of being off the ice during the contract discussions, press conferences, and announcement photo ops, it felt like coming home as I stepped onto the glassy surface of the rink. This was the only place that gave me that wholesome feeling of belonging and rightness. The world around me quieted as my senses focused on the task. The Hot Shots players all loitered around on the ice, waiting for me to make a move. This was the first practice we had together, and just like any other seasoned team, these guys were feeling me out. It was one thing to know a player's stats and a whole different thing to see if you would mesh well as a team. Mean mugs stared me down as I breathed in the frigid air. Fuck, I loved hockey.

Luckily, I'm amped up from the last two weeks, so I was ready to take whatever hazing they were about to dish out. I took a lap or two on the edges of the ice before stopping next to the net. I removed my glove and stuck my hand to the goalie and team captain, Sam Hutchins. He nodded in acknowledgment but turned back toward the line of eager players showing off their slapshots. I returned my hand to my glove.

One of the defensemen skated up behind me, patted my shoulder, and laughed, "Ignore Hutch. He wouldn't know how not to be grumpy. I'm Tanner Bright."

"Your game against the Brewers last season was epic. I cringed when you broke that douchebag's nose." I responded. Knowing exactly who this guy was. He might look harmless outside, but I'd seen his aggression as an enemy once or twice in pre-league games.

Tanner grinned with pride, "Yeah, Benson is a dick. He dated my girlfriend a while back and kept reminding me in the most disrespectful way possible."

I laughed, "I agree, Benson is a dick. He's lucky you only broke his nose then."

"For sure. She's an ex-girlfriend now, though." Tanner began to skate off; I slowly followed, taking this time to survey the other players. I knew the team inside and out from all the game footage I'd watched in the weeks leading up to the finalization of the contract. It had been challenging deciding to be lent out to train with the American Olympic team, and it was even harder coming back without a gold medal. However, I was not interested in going back to my old team. Too much drama surrounded me there. This team will be my fresh start to prove I'm different from the persona I've been branded with. It was the first and last time I ever trusted another person with my personal life and story. That's all in the past now. This team had a whole crew of staff bound by an ironclad contract. I have control over my own life again.

I observed the other players and saw how they interacted without a game's pressures. I was excited to work my way into their gameplay and enhance the parts that I knew were holding them back from winning a cup. I had years of experience and honed talent to give this fresh start. Just the thought of it was making my body vibrate with anticipation. The assistant coach yelled commands for different drills, and I jumped right in. Although each team's play style and practice routine differed, the fundamentals were the same. I easily navigated the obstacle course before flicking a quick shot toward the 2nd line goalie. He barely caught the puck with the tip of his glove, but it was enough to knock it off course. A zing of happy adrenaline coursed through my system. I was grateful to be home.

As I waited in the line to go again, I rolled my shoulders and conducted basic stretches. My limbs were stiff from missing practices, and of course, the bottle of tequila didn't help. But the memories of the dark brown ringlets clasped in my fingers as I kissed down the enchanting woman's slim, tanned neck were well worth the hangover.

It was nearly impossible to untangle myself from her sleeping body at four this morning. The softness of her skin against my calloused hands had me touching her well past the point we should have been resting. I couldn't resist the warmth that spread from her into my fingertips, awakening a fiery desire. It had been so long since my dick actually wanted a woman that I had suspicions it was broken. After years of women using my reputation as justification for treating me like shit, I'd become jaded and suspicious every time a woman showed interest leading to a self-enforced celibate lifestyle.

However, my little buddy stood at full mast when my eyes met her hazel ones across that bar. Her triumphant voice shocked my chest, causing my heart to skitter. My interest only heightened when she didn't recognize who I was. I almost died of laughter when she called me a washed-out football jock. Yet she knew the game better than most of my pro football buddies. Genuine love for the sport fueled her knowledge, not a ploy to seem attractive. I was blown away and didn't want the night to end. I could tell she was pretty intoxicated and had no real intention of taking her back to my hotel room, but a bottle of tequila later, my brain was no longer in control. I was unsure of the one-night-stand protocol as this was my first time, but I left a note letting her know when I would be back in case she was willing to go another round or two. My dick twitched at the thought of another round. The memory of her warm, wetness convulsing around my cock as she came had it twitching with the possibility of another round. I'd never been with a woman who responded so quickly to my touch or begged for what she needed with such genuine passion. My biggest regret is not asking for her name or number, which left me hoping she was still sprawled out naked in my hotel bed. My memory from last night had chunks missing, but everything I remembered was a wet dream.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn't see the player stop short before me and rammed right into him. Knocked off balance, my ass slammed into the ice, and a roar of laughter filled the rink; so much for not seeming like an idiot. I looked up at the brick wall of a man, Mikey, "seeing red" Robins. No wonder I fell flat on my ass. The six foot three, 200+ lbs defenseman was built sturdier than a tank and was known for delivering well-timed, jaw-dropping hits. There is not a player in the league stupid enough to keep their head down when he's on the ice, except for my dumbass.

"Sorry, man," I grumbled while picking myself up off the floor. With a grin, I quipped, "Didn't see you there."

Mikey grunted in response and took off toward the puck to complete his portion of the drill.

"Dawes! Get your fucking head straight!" The coach yelled. I took a steadying breath to focus on the sprinting drill before me. Then, I launched myself into the three-hour practice. The end couldn't' arrive fast enough so I could find out if the beauty from last night waited for me.


I arrived at my hotel room a little after 11:45 am to find a maid just getting started on my room. I instantly boiled over with rage, but I tried to keep my tone even and friendly: "Hey, I requested my room not be cleaned during my stay."

The poor girl jumped and dropped the rag and bottle of cleaning solution in her hands. So much for a friendly and even tone; my voice came out pissed. She pulled out a piece of paper, read over it, and muttered, "I" 'm so sorry, sir. My orders show you requested the room to be cleaned daily. The other guest confirmed as much."

"The other guest?" I demanded. The maid flinched. I wouldn't be getting anything else out of her.

"The woman who was staying here."

"How long ago was that?" My blood raced, and my voice was sharper this time.

"Maybe twenty minutes ago." She squeaked.

"Get out. Make sure the orders are changed so as not to disturb." The last thing I needed was to have a crazy fan or puck-bunny using the maids to gain access to my hotel room again. I scanned the room, looking for any clue about the mystery woman. The bed was a mess, pillows thrown all over the tiny room. It looked like my suitcase was messed with. The water bottle I'd left was missing. I'm glad she was at least a little hydrated after the amount of tequila we drank. I approached the side table and saw my note tucked between the table and the bed. It must have fallen there. I reached down to pick it up; my hand touched a soft, lacy material. After a thorough examination of what I pulled up, I knew two things for sure: 1) the woman was commando because her torn undies were currently clutched in my hand; 2) She stole my favorite lucky jersey.

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