Page 57 of Put a Rink on It

“Especially the fall. We don’t have autumn colors in Florida like they do here,” Barreto—according to his locker—comments.

“I’m looking forward to it, comparing it to Tahoe and Minnesota.”

Doherty’s eyes widen. “I didn’t know you’re a California boy.”

“Are you?” I ask him.

“I was born there, but we moved when I was one. Had high hopes of getting back there, but the hockey gods decided I should experience the other C states. Didn’t love the altitude of Denver, so I’m thankful for sea level.”

His statement stirs something loose. “Weird. I went from Tahoe to Denver to Minnesota. That was a transition for sure.” I chuckle, remembering how my skating was off when I first started playing in Minnesota. A lot of changes had occurred—playing professionally as well as a change of scenery—but I wonder if some of it had to do with the altitude. Can’t say the same now for why I’m still getting into a groove.

A few more guys wander in, and our conversation gets cut short.

“Yo, Champion. Everything good on the home front? You rushed out of here quickly yesterday.” Markou stares me down, his look half concerned, half knowing.

“It is now. Marina agreed to stay in Connecticut with me for a few weeks.” The moment the words trip out of my mouth, the implication in them is clear. A spell of nerves takes root. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut about her. I can’t trust what I’ll say.

“As opposed to not being together?” Novak ponders, not missing a beat. He tosses his bag into his locker, sits on the seat, and cuts old tape from his stick.

“We’re still working out the logistics. The swap to Connecticut threw us for a loop.” I’m smart enough not to mention that the whole “fake engagement” is the real culprit, but this is believable.

“Where does she currently live?” With a new roll, Novak retapes his stick.

“Vermont.”

“Not too far of a commute.”

“Way closer than Minnesota,” I agree, “but not sustainable for commuting. But we have to figure out where we go from here, where I’m going to end up settling before she uproots her life.”

“Are you not planning on staying in Hartford? You just got here,” Rancourt affirms, removing his hoodie to reveal a fitted black tee.

“I’m here for three seasons after this. Certainly don’t plan on living with my fiancée in an apartment.” My chuckle garners more attention from the players, all of them trying to get to know the newest guy.

“I’ve got a realtor if you need one,” Underwood offers. “And she’s smoking hot.”

Mignone slaps his chest. “He’s married.”

“Engaged,” Underwood argues. “Maybe he’s still looking.”

“I’m not.” The rate at which the defending statement falls from my mouth is absurd, considering the deceit in it. “But thanks for having my back if I were.”

Marina might only be my fiancée to other people, but if I’m honest, I can’t remember the last time I hooked up with someone.

“I’m in the market for a smoking hot hookup,” Gavrielidis says. “I’ll take her number.”

“What happened to the girl from the bar last week?” Underwood wonders.

“She was passing through town. Said she’ll be back at the end of the month.”

“So you got her number?”

He shoots a glare at him. “She knows where I work, dumbass.”

The conversation continues around me, the words “threesome,” “bunny,” and “puckboy,” thrown out. The whole “puckboy” life hasn’t ever been me. I’ve been with my fair share of women, but not in the way some of my teammates go through them.

A vibration against my thigh has me grabbing my phone. I can’t stop smiling at seeing Marina’s name.

Ships