Page 73 of Put a Rink on It

A flurry of nerves tracks through me as the clock ticks down. I coach Shannon on what’s going on, probably overwhelming her, but when I start, I can’t stop. So many disgruntled calls by the refs have us on our feet often, and she yells when I yell. It’s like they’re trying to make sure Montreal has an advantage.

With seven minutes left on the clock, Singeglasov completes a perfect pass to Underwood, who has an open shot, the first one of the night the goalie fails to block. The siren blares, and the Hartford fans go wild, whooping, hollering, and high-fiving the people around them. The WAGs’ row might be the loudest.

I cup my hands around my mouth. “Two more boys. You can do this. Hold the line.”

“What she said,” Shannon asserts with a chuckle.

Our voices are hoarse, but for good reason.

The one goal unleashes a fury the team didn’t possess before, and with two minutes left, we’re up by one.

“We’re winning,” she says.

“Shh,” I shush her, not wanting to jinx hockey logic. “Nothing’s set in stone until the last buzzer sounds. It’s still anyone’s game.”

Her lips turn into a frown of not understanding. “But there’s only two minutes left. They’d have to score two more goals. That seems nearly impossible.”

“And yet, stranger things have happened.”

I’m on my feet, watching with rapt scrutiny as the puck passes from player to player. The Nauts’ objective is to run out the clock, but the Montreal guys aren’t having it. They’re hungry for the win and will take it by any means possible.

Unfortunately for them, our team isn’t giving it up so easily. They play the hardest they’ve played all night, keeping the opponents hemmed in their own zone and too tired to do anything but dump the puck and change, the puck moving from the players like a game of keep-away. If there weren’t so much on the line, it would be cute.

The crowd starts chanting at ten, and even though the victory is theirs, the Nauts continue to battle until the end, wanting to make sure there’s no chance the game goes to overtime.

When the buzzer sounds, a quarter of the fans—those in Hartford purple—go wild, those in the front row banging on the glass. On the ice, the players throw themselves into each other, gloves and helmets flying off in the process. In our row, the wives and girlfriends celebrate with wine and beer.

I glance down at the ice, my gaze finding Nero’s. His left arm shoots into the air, and his left eye winks, a gesture I’ve been on the receiving end of dozens of times.

So why does tonight’s feel bigger, more potent?

And why does it feel like another line has been crossed, one more important than the others?

CHAPTER 23

nero

The win over Montreal set our team on a high like never before. But the best part is having Marina in the hotel room, nestled against me after I thoroughly exhausted her.

We both agreed the “two-week” challenge I issued is void. We’re compatible in the bedroom, our chemistry off the charts. More so than in college. More so than with any other woman I’ve been with.

Something to mull over another day.

Her fingers skim through the dusting of chest hair and over my tattoos, circling the storm one. “When did you get this?” Her voice is a hoarse murmur because it’s way past her usual bedtime, and apparently there was a lot of screaming during the game.

“The start of the season. Figured it was time to honor my team. Lotta luck that did.” I laugh without humor at the ironic timing.

“Why the ship?”

“The storm looked bare without something inside it. A ship seemed most fitting.”

An eyebrow draws to her hairline. “It did, did it? More irony?”

I shrug. I don’t have a suitable answer for her. It wasn’t a conscious thought, at least I didn’t think so, but the last month has me questioning a lot of my decisions as they relate to this woman. Except now’s not the time to explore any of this.

Thankfully, Marina agrees with a yawn. “How are you not tired? I didn’t play an entire hockey game and I was tired. And then you forced me to ‘come on your cock,’ which made me more tired. Can I go to sleep now?” Her head rests on my thigh, peering up at me through nearly closed slits.

I thread my fingers in the back of her hair, massaging her head with the pads. “Sleep, Ships.”