Page 109 of Double Puck

"Noted," I say. I keep my voice light because pushing right now isn't the move. "Well, if you need me. I'm in room 2604." I lean in and make a very subtle, yet obvious, wink. "Just down in the hall."

She barely reacts, in fact, I think she just took a step back from me.

She's been careful about this shit all day, and with Coach, my brothers and half the organization standing ten feet away, I can't exactly blame her.

Coach Pearson's whistle cuts through the lobby before I can say anything else. The sharp sound bounces off all that marble and every head turns.

"Listen up! Rooms. Bags down and get changed. I need all you lumps back here in forty-five minutes." He checks his watch, then glares at the group like we've already disappointed him. "We've got the arena walkthrough and pre-skate in one hour. Nobody's late. Nobody gets lost. Nobody ends up at a blackjack table." His eyes land on me specifically. "Nobody."

"Coach, I'm offended."

An hour later, we're walking into the visitor locker room at the Vegas arena, and even the away digs in this league are stupid.

The room is massive with dark wood stalls, and our gear is already there.

Josie and Rose move down the row like a two-woman pit crew, straightening nameplates and hanging jerseys so every Bears logo faces out at the exact same angle. An equipment guy is running everyone's skates through the sharpener in the corner, sparks jumping off the steel. The whole room smells like fresh tape and cold air pumped straight off the ice.

My jersey hangs in my stall. MORRISON.

I gear up fast, and follow the team through the tunnel, stepping through the gate.

And there it is.

An empty NHL arena. There's not a sight like it on this fucking planet.

Thousands of seats rise into the shadows, the ice untouched and gleaming under the lights like nobody's ever skated on it in the history of mankind.

Tomorrow night this place will be screaming.

Coach sends us for a slow skate, gathering some gear for a light session.

I push off and take my first lap, blades biting clean, and that's when I spot Darcy, sitting at rinkside by the bench, that fucking tablet still in her hand, already typing.

She's watching me.

And not in the good way I've taken a liking to.

She's just doing her job now, taking notes and filing everything into that goddamn report.

I could give her something worth writing down. Maybe a little shimmy. Triple axel. Front flip, land perfectly, blow her a kiss.

Or I could stop being an asshole and play hockey.

I choose hockey.

Coach Pearson and his assistant Pete set us up in groups. We go through easy, simple drills, simple touches with the puck, nothing cute. I run the corner drill twice and both times I make the boring play, the right play, and it feels weirdly good.

Declan glides up beside me at the far blue line, captain-mode locked in. "Keep your passes simple tomorrow. Short and clean."

"Nothing fancy through the neutral zone," Mason adds, appearing on my other side like they rehearsed it. They probably rehearsed it.

"Guys. Seriously. Not now."

They both stop.

"We're just—"

"I know what you're doing. You've been doing it all week. And I love you. Deeply. Against my better judgment." I point my stick between them. "But can you let me fuck up my own life for five minutes without forming a committee? Goddamn, I'm so tired of it."