Page 12 of Puck Off, She’s Mine

I skate toward Harrison, slapping him on the back.

He just grins at me.

Within seconds, we're in line, shaking hands with the Hurricanes. I'm impatient as hell to get through it and get off the ice, but the post-game ritual takes forever.

"She watched me the whole game," Corey mutters from behind me when I glance toward the press box again.

I tense, my hands clenching. Swear to Christ, he's on my last nerve with this bullshit. "Fuck off, Simms," I mutter. "She doesn't even like you."

"And you think she likes you?" he retorts, his voice pitched so only I hear it. "Keep dreaming, Michaud."

If punching your own teammate on the ice wasn't against the rules…

"I'll tell her you said hey when I see her in a few minutes," he says and then laughs when I shoot him a questioning look. "I'm doing press tonight, Michaud. She's the press."

He makes it sound as if he's fucking her, which pisses me off. She wouldn't touch his cock with someone else's pussy. But I shoot him a dark warning glare anyway before skating toward the back, eager to get to her before he has a chance. Naturally, he follows on my heels, humming some fucking tune like he's on top of the world.

We reach the locker room at the same time, both of us fighting to get through the door at once. I win by tripping him. What? He deserves it.

He just laughs, but a few of our teammates glance at me like they wonder what the fuck is up with the two of us. They've been fishing for info all week, but I have no answer, at least not one I'm willing to share. Truth is, he's the problem here. He only wants Cara because I do. That's the whole issue. If he'd fuck off, there wouldn't be an issue at all.

I speed through my shower, praying she doesn't leave before I get a chance to see her. I need to see her tonight, for reasons I can't even explain to myself. They have nothing to do with Corey. Like I said, he can get fucked.

"You doing press tonight?" I ask Ryan Walker, our goalie, when I'm dressed. Corey is still in the shower.

"Unfortunately."

"Want to swap?"

Ryan narrows his eyes at me, suspicious. "Swap for what?"

"I'll take your press scrum tonight. You can have mine in Colorado."

"Let me get this straight," he says, slowly buttoning his shirt. "You're offering to willingly go talk to the press tonight?"

"Yes…"

"Jesus." He laughs abruptly. "I do not want any of whatever the fuck you had tonight."

"Man, shut up with that bullshit. You want to swap or not?"

"Hell yeah, I want to swap," he says, still laughing. "Knock yourself out."

"Appreciate it," I mutter, already heading toward the door.

Corey steps into the locker room from the shower before I make it across the room, a towel in his hands. But he doesn't ask where I'm going, and I don't share. He just looks at me like he's amused.

I step out into the hall, my feet moving by instinct toward the press pool. I'm not even halfway there when I catch sight of Cara standing against the wall, her notebook in one hand and her pen in the other. She's jotting notes with a furrow between her brow, oblivious to everything around her.

My steps stall, my gaze locked on her. Her lips move periodically, as if she's reciting what she's written. About me? About the team? The game? I don't know. It doesn't even really matter, but the way she's completely absorbed is fascinating to me. The usual post-game chaos spills around her, people rushing, shouting, and all talking at once, but she's an oasis in the middle of it.

A strand of hair dangles in her face. She swats it away with an impatient hand, only for it to bounce right back. She swats it again, huffing softly.

I chuckle, and she freezes, her hand hovering in midair. Her head whips up, those big hazel eyes locking on me. For a minute, I just stand there, rooted in place. She's startled, her eyes wide with surprise, as if she didn't expect to see me. Her cheeks are flushed, her bottom lip red as if she's bitten it at some point. My balls ache at the sight of a tiny ink smudge on her cheek.

"What does your notebook say about me now, gorgeous?" I finally ask, taking a step toward her.

She jumps slightly, glancing around. Once she realizes there are two dozen people in the immediate vicinity, her shoulders go back, her chin coming up. I'm a little surprised when she marches toward me, her hand clamping on my arm. Within seconds, she's hauling me back down the hallway, muttering under her breath.