Page 41 of Pucking Good Girl

Up to a couple of months ago, I would have ignored it. Once I set foot in the locker room, I get into hockey mode and nothing else matters until the end of the third period.

But Talia is at work tonight, and I didn’t get to see her before leaving today. So I hope this is her texting me to say good luck.

It’s impossible not to smile when I see her name in the text preview.

Talia: I’m sorry we didn’t get to say goodbye in person today. But I’ll be watching the game tonight while I’m at work. And there’s no doubt who I’m rooting for.

Another text with a photo comes in, and my smile widens. It’s Talia behind the bar at Joe’s. Rather than wearing the usual white t-shirt with the bar’s logo on the front, my girlfriend is wearing a Cove Knight jersey.

The next photo that arrives shows me the number nineteen on her back with my name on it.

.

Me: You look gorgeous. Perfect. But now I’m going to think about the last time you had my jersey on and I’ll have to do my warm up with a boner

Talia: Sorry. But I think you’ll be fine. I’m sure the cold air in the arena will help you… deflate the situation

.

I chuckle, typing a response.

Me: No chance. Every time I think about you in my arms, I get so hard that my hockey stick pales in comparison.

Talia: I wish I were there to help you take care of it after the game. But we’ll celebrate your victory tomorrow night. I already have a few things in mind.

Yeah. I’m not lying when I say that the sight of her in my jersey makes me hard. But her words are even worse for my blood flow, which is now headed south faster than one of my slapshots.

Me: I can’t wait. But now I gotta go, baby. Be a good girl tonight and text me when you get home from work?

Talia: I will. Bring home the W, captain.

I power my phone off with a huge smile on my face.

“What are you smiling about, Shayba?” Tucker slaps my back so hard that my phone almost flies out of my hands. “I’ve never seen you texting a girl before a game.”

He’s right. The way I went silent for a couple of hours before a game was one constant source of tension between me and Genevieve.

“It’s not any girl,” I correct him. “Hearing from my girlfriend before a game motivates me.”

Tucker frowns. “And why is that?”

“Because I want to make her proud.”

He slaps my back again, harder this time. “Good answer. If you had hinted at any reward, she might have offered if you scored, you’d have had to skate dick-less tonight.”

I’m about to roll my eyes, but then I notice my brother typing something on his own phone as if his life depended on it.

Tucker notices too. “Who are you texting, Beavis?”

The color of Becks’s face matches Stanford’s cardinal red the second we turn our attention on him.

I could bet my puck signed by Sydney Crosby that I know exactly who my little brother is texting.

“It’s private,” Becks glowers, trying to move his phone out of Tucker’s view.

Tucker is one nosy motherfucker, like all hockey players in general.

“Oh, is it? Guys,” our goalie chuckles. “Beavis has a hot chick texting him before the game and he thinks he can keep it a secret from us.”