Page 69 of Temptation On Ice

I don't want to think about what could go wrong when I have the man I love in front of me, believing in us so firmly he’s willing to take whatever vitriol that’ll come from it because he’d rather kiss me whenever he can. I know it’s not an inevitability that I’ll fuck this up, and more likely than not, we’ll live a perfectly normal life without anything bad happening. So that’s what I cling to.

The ordinary. The mundane. The mornings spent making pancakes and drinking coffee together. The evenings we grill on the deck while Enzo plays with the dogs. Watching his games from the stands. Working on my organization while he travels and plays hockey. My heart finally crawls out of my throat, and I take a gasping breath as Sebastian nods, breathing with me.

“I’m sorry for always bringing a black cloud to things that are supposed to be good,” I say, voice shaking and strangled. I’m not yet where I want to be after a fucking public kiss and one person saying something in a language I didn't understand, but grasped the undertones well enough.

“Tucker Covington, you’re my sunshine and everything good in my life. You're not a black cloud. Keep breathing and being enough just as you are, got it?”

“Stop freaking me out whenever I show up at games, and maybe I wouldn't have such a hard time breathing,” I croak, my throat still a little tight from the panic that is slowly ebbing away.

“That’s my boy,” he says, laughing and placing a kiss on my nose.

“Hate to break up this love fest and all, because it’s truly the cutest, but we need to get the game started or poor McKenna is going to lose her mind,” Cami says, sliding up next to me. “And I think all the dogs except Storm, the Husky-mix, are getting cold out here.”

“She’s right,” I say to Sebastian, pulling out of his arms as he reluctantly lets me go.

He picks up his stick and looks at the other captain. “Hey, asshole, time for face-off pictures,” he calls with a sneer, like it wasn't his fault entirely that we’ve delayed the game so thoroughly. I don't think Sebastian liked whatever the other captain had to say, and he’ll be holding it against him going into the game.

The captain rolls his eyes, and they assume a face-off position, with Ajax holding the puck until we give him the command to drop it. We’re able to leave the ice after that, and Sebastian seems to have entered his focused state, so he’s less playful as I wish him good luck, and he skates away. Our group heads up to the box seats McKenna got us, so all the dogs and our group can be together and stretch out. I’m ready to watch my man kick ass.

Twenty-nine

Sebastian

Tucker isn't in a lower bowl seat, so there’s no risk of seeing him from the bench or right against the glass this game, which means I can focus a little better. I take the time we have before the game starts to pull Westy aside.

“Dumont, I have a question for the team Frenchy.”

“Oh, so my French is welcome now, eh?” he says, smiling and elbowing me before squirting water in his mouth.

“What does fifs mean?” I ask.

He chokes on the water, coughing and bending forward to spit onto the ice when he finally gets his breathing under control. “Where’d you hear that?” he asks, his face uncharacteristically angry.

“Benoit said it after I kissed Tucker. He said some other stuff I didn’t catch, but that was the last thing, and then he spit, so I figured it was insulting.”

“That motherfucker is just as bad as he was in junior hockey,” he growls, looking over his shoulder at the Montreal bench where Benoit is talking to his teammates. “He’s always been the worst kind of asshole.”

“Yeah, that’s easy enough to figure out, but what does it mean?” I ask, grabbing Westy’s shoulder and turning his attention back to me. He’s agitated and angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

“It’s a nasty French-Canadian slur that’s irredeemable. He called you fags, with homophobic contempt. I want to rip his head off.”

That does it.

“Boys, circle up,” I call, getting the attention of the team near us on the bench and those on the ice. When they skate closer, I look around and make a decision to bring them in on this. “Benoit called me a fag at the puck drop for kissing Tucker. I’d like to give him a warm Southern welcome and show him that kind of language isn’t tolerated down here in Atlanta. Keep it clean, but make it clear we don't stand for homophobia in our house.”

Heads whip toward the visitors' bench, and grumbles are heard, but I know they all got the message and will do just that.

“Nobody talks about my captain like that,” Rook says, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Only we get to give you shit for macking on your boy toy in front of everyone, you big slut.”

“Seriously, Cap, keep it in your pants already. No one wants to watch you shove your tongue down his throat, no matter how in love you are,” Campbell adds.

“I can't believe you two agreed on something,” Ryder says, looking between Rook and Campbell. “This is going to be a good game. Team up for once and give Montreal hell instead of each other.”

“Shut it, Kingsy,” Campbell growls, skating away.

“He’s just grumpy because I didn't throw anything at him before the game, so his pre-game rituals are off. It’ll fuck with him even more than actually fucking with him. How’s that for some critical thinking, eh?” Rook says, grinning evilly and tapping his helmet, before he skates after Campbell to take his place on the ice.

I shake my head at their ongoing rivalry and follow.