Page 53 of Ice Rebel

“Fine. What are we talking?” I asked, why I wasn’t certain other than I didn’t like to lose.

“Hundred bucks. If you can keep me from making a goal, you win.”

The concept was ridiculous, child’s play. Or I should say a child’s tantrum kind of play, but I couldn’t allow him to shout out that I’d gone soft, refusing the challenge. That wouldn’t be good for my reputation.

“Alright. You’re on.” As soon as we started the play, I steered him toward the boards to limit his options. But he realized what I was doing quickly, barely avoiding a collision while moving around me more expertly than I’d seen in real play.

We did a little dancing, his fancy footwork meant for distraction. It didn’t work, but I allowed him to think so. A split second before he believed he had a clean shot, I stole the puck from him, gliding easily to the other side of the rink with him scrambling to follow.

There was nothing like the whirring of the blades cutting through the ice or the hard slap of sticks. We moved from one side to the other, ignoring all sense of rules. When he snagged control again, I refused to bite on fakes, maintaining a tight gap.

We were both sweating like pigs from one trying to best the other, grunting with every shot made with every puck stolen. I had to admit, as much as I couldn’t stand the jerk, he was challenging those pivots.

I knew the exact minute his mind had changed gears and he attempted to cut toward the net. I made subtle adjustments as I moved closer, the inside edge pushing to match his lateral movements.

But I’d had enough and I could tell he was prepared to go all out to claim victory.

Over my dead body.

It didn’t take long until we were grinding our blades against the ice, digging in during a battle of puck possession. The fight was real, one tough guy against another. We were skidding around the rink, moving in circle after circle and neither one of us were giving up.

To anyone watching, our moves would appear tethered, two huge guys performing some insane modern dance. Lovers whose bodies were writhing together in the darkest moments of passion.

And why did my mind just shift to the stunning woman who’d been attached to my tether, undulating under me while our hands had been clamped together?

When we started doing forearm shivers, I knew the short shoves definitely wouldn’t last for long. Grunts. Groans. Growls. We were all over the place with our savagery.

And suddenly something broke free. Maybe from our minds. Maybe because our muscles were tight and sore. Just maybe because it had become apparent neither one of us would give up, conceding a loss. So why not fucking win together?

With the puck right in front of us, we both lunged toward it, our blades chipping away at the ice as we skated like our lives depended on it. Just when I thought it couldn’t become any more complicated, we both took a shot.

Toward the goal at the far end of the rink, way past the line. What the hell. It was a long shot, but that’s what the Seattle Wild were known for. There could be arguments about whose stick snapped against the puck first, but even on camera, my guess was what would be seen was two intense hockey players, unforgiving in all aspects of what they did, working together to make a single goal.

After the puck was released, we both slowed the momentum, watching. Waiting. Anticipating where the puck would go. The moment it flew into the net, something else happened, as if the gods above had cracked open heaven to allow us some sense of camaraderie. No sooner than the puck had determined its destination when we jumped into the air, another precision move.

Our twigs flying high, our groan turning into howls of happiness. Before we came back down to the ice, we high-fived it. Then once on the solid surface, we did the unthinkable.

We hugged.

A bear hug, nothing that could be confused as anything but feeling the continued excitement from a nonexistent win, but it felt damn good for a change.

But it would seem we weren’t the only ones celebrating.

Applause sounded off in the arena, loud and proud, including with whoops and hollers that both Jagger and I immediately recognized.

The momentum kept us skating, his brows lifting in frustration from being caught.

While I yanked off my helmet, still trying to catch my breath, one person was clapping louder than everyone else.

I skated in another circle before coming closer to the tunnel where Coach Stryker stood, clapping loudly even though his expression was one of ire. Or maybe disgust. With the coach you could never tell.

The team had arrived for practice, a few of the guys trying to keep from falling into a fit of laughter. I glared at Hudson first, who was beside himself. Then there was the Italian Stallion, Anthony having the time of his life.

“Interesting play,” Zane, the Showman called out, much to the coach’s annoyance. The others chuckled and I could tell the coach was losing his patience.

We skated closer and I finally yanked off my glove to wipe sweat from my face. As soon as we were within a few feet, the coach planted his hands on his hips, staring at us as if uncertain what the hell to do.

I glanced at Jagger, who quickly furrowed his brow. We weren’t certain what to expect. Maybe that’s when I noticed Coach Stryker had two jerseys, one slung over each shoulder.