Max snickered. She ignored it.
“So why risk it?” Throughout the game, Max’s questions had gotten progressively more intuitive. She’d even go so far as to say he was becoming a fan.
“There’s no rule that says one of your six players must be a goalie. And when you want the win badly enough… sometimes it’s worth the risk. Especially if your D-line is solid.”
“And…” He squinted. “Stewart and…” He squinted again. “Morgan? They’re both… solid?”
She nodded, gnawing on her lip. “Austin has already been drafted by the Wild. They’re just waiting for him to finish out his senior year before he joins the team.”
“Is that good?”
“Drafted by a major league team before you leave college is a pretty good thing, yeah.” Her spidey sense tingled as a defender from the opposing team nipped at Finn’s heels. Her stomach tightened. He was headed for a collision with the plexi, and he probably had no idea it was coming.
She held her breath as Finn took a hit against the boards and crumpled onto the ice like an empty potato chip packet.
“Fuck!” Molly was on her feet. Cleo, too. Molly’s stomach flipped. “Get up, Finnegan. Get the fuck on your feet.”
With a shake of his head, Finn lumbered to his feet, dusted himself off, and got back to the play.
“No, no, no! Don’t let him have it.” Max yelled at Will with some serious aggression. “I can’t watch.” He turned his head so his chin rested against his friend’s shoulder, peering over the fabric back to the ice. “And yet I can’t not watch. Shit. Pretty Girl, you’re clearly a masochist. How do your nerves cope with this insanity?”
Despite the knots in her shoulders, Molly smiled. Her jaw ached from clenching as she urged Russell to pass the puck forward to Finn, or Will… hell, anyone in an ice-blue shirt would be great as long as it wasn’t in their own defensive zone. “Get. It. The. Fuck. Out!”
Cleo’s fingers dug into Molly’s forearm as the entire arena watched with bated breath. Russell collected the puck from just behind their blue line and passed to Austin, who cruised forward, sending it back to Russ. Molly’s notebook was forgotten as she clutched Cleo’s hand like it was game seven of the Stanley Cup playoff finals.
Russ passed to Will. Then Will to Finn. They advanced on the opposition like soldiers riding into battle. The Pirates nearly lost control of the puck in a skirmish at center ice, but Finn threw a last minute open ice hip check that made her knees weak and her eyes roll back in her head.
Nothing stoked her fire more than a well-executed, open ice hip check. If they weren’t seconds from the end of the game and trying to send the Raccoons home with their tails between their legs, and she wasn’t reporting on the game, she’d have swooned right there in the stands... or hauled ass to the bathrooms to release a little pressure building up between her legs. As it was, she tossed the memory in her spank-bank for a post-game O when she got home.
Finn sailed the puck to Will who passed it to Johnny. She cringed as though she’d bitten into a lemon. Why did that asshole glory hunter have to be so damn good at hockey?
He circled behind the net, pausing as though he wasn’t racing against the clock. Faking out the defender, he passed right instead of left, straight to the blade of Finn’s stick. Finn one-timed it into the bottom corner of the net, the lamp lit, and a roar engulfed the arena.
The five guys in front of her double hi-fived and hugged each other. Max hopped over his seat, picked Molly up off her feet and spun her around. “You’re the least patient teacher I’ve ever had, Pretty Girl. But I’m buying tickets and coming back next week.” He put her back down.
She patted his chest. “Stalking’s illegal in Minnesota, Max.”
“It’s for the protection of potential newbies. If I’m sitting here, I’m saving someone else from your ire. Not everyone could stomach your caustic wit and muttered threats of bodily harm and murder. Yeah, I heard ‘em.” He winked.
“See you next week, Pretty Girl, maybe I can convince you to come sit on Maximillian’s lap while we watch the game together.”
“Did you just talk about your lap in the third person?” Was this guy for real?
With a smirk and a wave, he jumped back over his seat and filtered out of the row behind his friends.
“That was… wow.” Cleo remained in her seat, staring at the ice. “Does it ever go away?”
“The adrenaline? Nope. It’s a doozy. Feels pretty good, right? Know what’s good for post-game adrenaline?”
Her friend narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “What’s that?”
Molly grinned. “Sex.”
Chapter 2
Finnegan
Stepping into the bar after a home ice win was always pretty sick. Adoring fans high-fiving and patting you on the back like you’d won the Stanley Cup finals, people buying you drinks, and so many beautiful women on the prowl.
