Do I think he could give me exactly what I want? Why yes. Yes, I do.
Will I take it at the expense of my pride?
Hell no.
Nothing is worth that price.
Carefully, I rise, not waiting for him to follow before I pull my blouse over my head and drop it to the floor on the way to the bathroom. I unzip my skirt next and let it slide down my legs and fucking relish in the groan that rumbles deep in his chest. I might not work out enough to have the ass of steel my sister has, but mine isn’t bad, and the lingerie addiction I love to indulge makes it look even better. So maybe I’m teasing him a little, but he started it.
I look over my shoulder, a grin pulling at my lips. “Sorry, husband, but I’m just as capable of giving myself what I wantas you are. Don’t hold dinner for me. I need to...take care of something... before I come down.”
Fuck him and his demands.
Two can play this game.
LOGAN
If you want the things other players only dream of
you have to be willing to put in the work those same players think is too fucking hard.
The work starts here. Today. It’s your choice.
—Logan Adler’s locker room speech before the first preseason practice of the season
There’s a different kind of energy that comes to life with the start of a new season. Last year is over. The wins, the losses, the fights, and the fuckups. None of it matters anymore. It’s a blank slate. A fresh start.
It’s meeting with the team docs for evaluations.
Being broken into groups for ice time. Your first of the official season, but unless you’re a fucking idiot, you’ve been skating all offseason too. Not that everyone does. But that first week doesn’t lie. There’s no hiding the assholes who gotFDLall summer long. Fat, drunk, and fucking lazy. Those are the dumb fucks whospent half their ice time puking in the trash bin because they can’t keep up.
It’s Wallies. Sprinting. Overbacks.
Conditioning like our lives depend on it because, as of today, you better believe they fucking do. Why? Because we’ve got the best job in the entire world. We lace up skates and hold our sticks as we soar across the ice, and we get paid for it. If you’re good, you get canonized for it. I might not be the best husband. And I might be working on being the best father. But the one thing I am right now, right here, today, is the best fucking player. The captain of the team. The top scorer in the league last year. Others may think I’ve peaked. That there’s nowhere to go but down from here, but they’re wrong, and I’m going to prove it.
This is our season.
Our turn to win it all.
The pain is temporary. Nothing an ice bath can’t fix at the end of the day. But the glory—the respect—that makes it all worth it.
Rafe is doubled over, breathing heavy when I stop next to him and grab a water to squirt into my mouth. “What the hell is your problem?”
He side-eyes me before straightening. “Fuck off, brother.”
“Come on, man.” I drop the puck between us, pushing him harder, the way we’ve always been able to depend on each other to do. “You’re better than this.”
I shoot the puck down the ice, watching as it bounces against the back wall. “First one to the puck wins.”
“Wins what?” he asks, probably the only person I’ve ever known who’s as competitive as me, unless you count Olivia.
His eyes light up like the lights behind the net when we score.
“You set me up with Liv’s cousin.”
Fuck no. “I’m not even sure she’s stable, man.”
Shit. Wrong thing to say to Rafe. The more fucked up, the better in his book.
