Page 28 of Pucked Into Position

When he pulls away, I let out a whimper.

He chuckles and presses his forehead to mine. “Lana, please say you’ll always be mine.”

I tug his hair, guiding him back so I can see him fully. A spark of defiance lights in my chest and I nod.

“I want to hear you say it,” he growls, narrowing his eyes.

I nod again and tease my fingers down the back of his neck.

“Lana.” The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement, but he holds his hard stare.

“Yes? Oh!” I’m on my stomach, and he yanks my leggings off, the cool air sends goosebumps across my skin. Then his warm hand is resting on my ass, rubbing gentle circles.

“You’re mine,” he commands.

I nod and wiggle my hips. Ryan lets out a strangled groan and slaps me hard enough to sting. I gasp, feeling every nerve tingling and my core flood.

“I’m yours.”

His hand lands hard on my ass, and I clutch at the sheet.

“Lana Farmer.” Ryan’s voice is in my ear now and I shudder. “You’ll always be mine.”

I don’t speak and he shifts, pressing his hardening length between my thighs, and I can’t take it anymore.

“Yes. I’ll always be yours, Ryan Walker.”

Epilogue

Seven Months Later

Ryan

The weight of the entire season, of a million agonizing minutes on and off the ice, boils down to the thirty seconds ticking away on the jumbotron.

The air inside the arena is thick with the tension of twenty thousand screaming fans, though there’s only one voice I care about. It’s the final game of the playoffs, a brutal fight for the puck stretched out over four agonizing periods.

We’re up 1–0, but the score flashing bright and menacing above the ice is a reminder of how little that lead means with thirty seconds left. One mistake and they tie it. One mistake and the Stanley Cup slips right through our fingers.

I’m set in my crease, knees bent and body low, my glove hand ready as I grip my stick and track the puck through the chaos in front of me. My muscles burn with a bone-deep ache that resonates through my shoulders and thighs, but my head is clear and I’m ready for anything they throw at me.

My eyes flick toward the other end of the ice just in time to see their goalie racing for the bench. With only seconds left and their season on the line, they’re going all in, sending an extra attacker onto the ice in a desperate attempt to tie the game.

“Hold the line!” I shout, watching six opposing skaters flood the area.

The final twenty seconds become a blur of pure adrenaline. The opposition launches a relentless attack, moving the puck rapidly between them as they swarm our zone. I can barely keep track of the puck, but somehow I manage to keep it out of the net.

The clock ticks down.

Ten seconds left.

A scrum erupts directly around the crease. Sticks clash, ice sprays, and bodies slam into each other around the crease. The crowd roars in the background, drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears.

In the middle of the chaos, an opposing defenseman attempts to jam the puck past my left pad. I lunge forward to cover the ice, but instead of smothering the puck to force a whistle, I catch it with my stick. It spins loosely before coming to a dead stop right in front of me.

I don’t have time to think. My only instinct is to clear the zone before they can reset their attack.

I send the puck sailing down the ice.