“Get him!”
“Hit him with the stick!”
“Kill him!”
Molly groaned into the fist she had crammed into her mouth. “Fucking newbies.”
“What was that? I couldn’t make it out around those white knuckles you’re gnawing on.” Cleo’s face contorted, probably in an attempt to school her face into a serious expression, but her body shook with silent giggles.
“Why doesn’t he just clock him with the stick?” A group of male college students sat in the row in front of Molly and Cleo in the Snow Pirates home arena. Either the guys had taken a wrong turn on the way to the football field, or this was their first ever hockey game. From the looks of things, it might have even been their first time in public.
“Because that’s aggravated assault.” Molly didn’t take her eyes off the play while she answered, but her voice sounded every bit as unamused as she felt.
Two of the men twisted in their seats to look at her, eyebrows raised.
“Hitting someone with a potentially dangerous weapon? You ever been hit by a hockey stick? Those suckers can do some serious damage. Sure there’s fighting in hockey, but they don’t abandon the rule of law at the edge of the ice.”
It was rarely so severe as hockey players lacked the intent to harm, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t mess with the newbies just a little.
One of the guys nodded as if that made perfect sense. The Snow Pirates were only ten minutesinto the first period, and Molly was already done with the inane chatter and commentary coming from the guys in front.
The newbies had shown up to the game without so much as a trace of Snow Pirates colors between them. One of them even dared to wear green – the color of the other team, the Cedar Rapids Raccoons. He either didn’t know or flat out didn’t care. If she didn’t think it could be construed as wanting to get the man naked, she’d have demanded he remove the offending color until the game was over.
Sure, she was overreacting – every hockey fan had to start somewhere. Not everyone was born with her innate desire to watch a group of peak-performance athletes chase a three inch disk of rubber around a rink on ice skates. She should probably be kinder to those who got there eventually, even if they didn’t know anything about anything and didn’t give a shit who heard.
If she was being honest with herself, her irritation was less to do with the guys in front of her not knowing which was way up when it came to hockey, and more to do with Finn O’Brien.
The 6ft 2 left winger crouched low in the face-off circle, yet still towered over his opponent. His delicious bubble butt pointed right at her. Desire coated her throat like thick honey on a spoon. She shook her head to clear the shameless thoughts.
She had no business lusting over her brother’s best friend. There were lines that couldn’t be crossed, and unfortunately for her, the man who held every ounce of her heart was so very, very offside. He was also the dumbass who had promised her brother that he’d never lay a finger on her. Ever.
A finger wasn’t all she wanted him to lay on her. She licked her lips.
What the hell was wrong with her? Okay, fine, it had been a couple days since she’d last gotten laid, but she’d sure as shit gotten off before she left for the game.
No matter how tired or busy she was, she needed her game day O every bit as much as Finn needed to tape his stick with military precision… or Will needed his game day nap, or Austin and Seb needed to kick their soccer ball around the hall. It was her game day routine and game day routines weren’t to be fucked with.
Maybe if she focused on Finn’s opponent’s ass instead, the flickering embers of need pulsing low in her belly would stop dragging her attention to Finn’s butt, his thighs, and his delicious broad shoulders. Slater Goodwin’s smaller frame was less impressive, his backside, too. No matter how much she willed her eyes to stay focused on Slater’s ass, it was as though Finn had magnets stuck to his butt cheeks, and the corresponding magnets in her pupils couldn’t fight the pull.
So what if his thighs were so thick he could probably crush a watermelon without breaking a sweat? Those thighs were not destined to nestle between her own.
Fuck. She clenched her legs together, smacking her pen off her notebook with increasing aggression as the buzzer sounded noting an infraction on the ice.
What the hell had happened? She’d been so distracted by the idea of her legs curled around Finn’s waist that she’d missed a call. She never missed calls. Shit.
“Tyler Lawson, two minutes for crosschecking.”
Thank you, Mr. Announcer Man. Molly scribbled on her notebook as she watched the replay on the big screen. The Raccoon in question did indeed crosscheck her brother against the boards.
One of the guys in the row in front elbowed the dude wearing Cedar Rapids green. “What the fuck is crosschecking?”
Green Dude shrugged. “Fuck if I know. Google it.”
With an eye roll that almost sprained her retinas, Molly sighed. There was zero hope for this bunch. Crosschecking was the easiest of all the penalties to spot due to the distinctive shoving-with-the-stick action. She needed to speak up and help the poor beings before it all got too much for them.
She cleared her throat. “It’s when a player uses the shaft of his stick to hit an opponent.”
One of them smothered a snigger behind his hand as the others turned to face her.
