Page 12 of Line Change

His mouth flattens. “There he is.”

The next shift is bad again. The one after that, we pin them in their zone. It makes no fucking sense. We play better angry, right up until we speak.

The score is tied late in the third when we go out for an offensive-zone faceoff. Fraser sets up across from me. Sweat darkens the hair at his temples, and his eyes stay on mine.

I tap the inside edge of my blade once. He shifts his weight.

The puck drops. I tie up their center and kick it back to Bobby near the point. Fraser goes high, dragging his man with him, then cuts down so sharply the defenseman loses an edge.

Bobby finds him along the wall. Fraser has room to shoot, and the goalie squares to him. Fraser passes instead. The puck comes through two sets of skates and lands against my blade at the back door.

I bury it.

Fraser reaches me first. He jumps, and I catch him because that’s what you do when your winger puts the winning goal on your stick. His arms lock around my shoulders, his legs hit my hips, and his mouth presses against my ear.

“You owe me for that one.”

Bobby crashes into us. Fraser drops back to the ice, still grinning.

We win. We actually fucking win, and this time it isn’t sheer dumb luck.

At the hotel bar that night, the team starts celebrating before half the guys decide where they’re going. Bobby wants everyone to vote between three clubs while Anton tells him all three are terrible. I take the end stool and order a beer.

A woman steps up beside me before it arrives. She’s tall and dark-haired, wearing a black dress that leaves most of her back bare. The material hugs her hips, and when she leans against the bar, I get a clean view down the front.

She catches me looking and smiles. “Good game.”

“Thanks.” I turn toward her.

“You always look that serious after a win?”

“I didn’t know anybody was checking.” I let my eyes drop to her dress again.

“I was.” Her gaze travels down my chest. “A few times.”

I like the way she looks at me. I like that I don’t have to guess what she wants. When she moves closer, her perfume fills my nose and her bare arm brushes mine. Heat settles low in my stomach. Good. Normal.

She’s hot. I’m single. I don’t date much, but I like fucking, and taking her upstairs would put the universe back where it belongs.

“Are you going out with everybody?” she asks.

“I haven’t decided.”

“You should.” Her fingers skim my forearm. “Or we could go somewhere quieter.”

I turn toward her. “How quiet?”

The elevator doors open behind her.

Fraser walks out in dark pants and a short-sleeved black shirt. His tattoos are visible from his wrist to the edge of the sleeve and then again where the ink climbs his neck. The shirt fits close across his chest and shoulders.

For several seconds, I forget the woman exists. All I see is wet ink. Water running down his arm. His cock between his thighs. His hand reaching for my cock.

Fraser crosses the lobby, runs one hand through his hair, and says something that makes Bobby laugh. He steals Bobby’s drink and takes the chair across from him without looking at me.

After the way I acted on the plane and during the game, I probably deserve to be ignored.

He lifts the glass. I watch his tattooed forearm flex, then his throat move when he swallows.