“Ouch. Want some ice for that burn, Hardy?” Random man #3 gave his friend a noogie.
“You realize there’s a game happening down there, right?” Molly pointed to the ice with a cursory glance at the five amigos. “We’re actually a pretty good team.”
“It’s too fast. I can’t keep up.” Random man #4’s grumble was almost inaudible over the wave of boos rippling around the arena.
Molly was on her feet, flailing a hand at the ice. “Hey Ref! Maybe if you sucked a little less on the whistle, you’d blow it right!” She plopped onto her seat. “Fucking Iowa.”
“Okay, Iowa’s like the least offensive state in the United States. That doesn’t work. Fucking Florida? That works. Fucking Alabama? Also acceptable. But Iowa? What has Iowa ever done to you other than give you beans and corn?” Max was quickly falling out of favor. Not that he was ever really in favor.
Molly narrowed her eyes. Cleo grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Murder is bad, Mol.”
Another ripple of boos erupted around the rink as the Raccoons bagged a power play goal of their own. “Mother fuck.”
“She knows it’s only the first quarter, right?” Max spoke to Cleo but jerked a thumb in Molly’s direction.
Molly rolled her lips between her teeth but still managed to speak before Cleo opened her mouth. “It’s a period, not a quarter. And yes, I’m aware we’re still in the firstperiod, but this is dumb as shit.”
One of the guys brayed out a laugh. Was he seriously laughing at the wordperiod? She couldn’t fathom a grown-ass man still snickering, but so many people cringed at the wordmoist, she supposed anything was possible.
Moist. Her absolute favorite word in the entire dictionary.
Used to describe that feeling between your thighs when you think about fucking Finn O’Brien.
She shook her head. But it did little to dislodge the thought as Finn threw his leg over the bench to take to the ice.
What I wouldn’t give to have him throw his leg over—
“C’mon, Obi!” A fan screaming Finn’s nickname jolted her out of her lady boner stupor. It wasn’t the most creative of nicknames, Obi for O’Brien, but it worked.
Finn hurtled toward the net on a breakaway. Molly scooted forward in her chair, holding her breath. For such a big dude, he moved on the ice with the elegance and grace of a dancer – and when he’d had a few beers, he shook his money maker off the ice as well. She’d seen him dancing on the bar with his shirt off more times than she could count.
Except the memories were burned into her mind. Finn. Shirtless. Her mouth dried up. Probably because every ounce of moisture in her body was rushing to pool between her thighs.
Fucking pay attention.
Finn lined up the shot, swung, and… clink. The bright chime of a puck hitting the crossbar sent a collective groan around the arena and her stomach to the floor.
It was going to be a long game.
***
“Where’s the goalie going?” The panic in Max’s voice at the absence of a goaltender tugged Molly’s lips into a grin despite the nail-biting status of the game.
“Why’s he leaving the court?” The guy next to Max let out a gush of air as he elbowed his ribs.
“It’s not a court.” His arrogant, “are you a fucking dumbass?” tone made her giggle.
“I don’t give a shit what it is. Where’s he going?”
Four out of the five guys turned to face her. With a sigh, she tracked the extra skater leaving the bench and making his way onto the ice. “Coach pulled the goalie so we can have an extra attacker on the ice. With only a couple minutes to go and the game tied, some coaches remove the goaltender from play to try to get the W.”
“What’s the W?”
She wasn’t sure which one of them asked the question, but she rolled her eyes at all of them. “The Win.”
“But… surely…” Max’s head turned between the action on the ice and Molly. “If one of the Raccoons gets the puck, a goal is a dead cert, right?”
She nodded. “Almost always. Especially at this level. Even from the opposite end of the ice. These guys could basically score from anywhere.”
