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I breathed through the feeling and carried the groceries into the kitchen.
“Did he just call my ass pretty? Is my ass pretty?” Mason whispered behind me, more bags inhis arms.
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “How would I know?”
“Oh, please. You’re not a real lesbian. Is my ass pretty?”
“Hey, I’m mostly a lesbian,” I said even as I internally cringed. I still felt guilty about lying to the world about my sexuality, but the alternative wasn’t fun. And, ideally, if I end up with a woman, it wouldn’t be an issue. Not that that was going to happen for at least a few years. I didn’t have time for a relationship, not when my career was finally taking off.
“Just tell me,” Mason whined quietly as Drew dug around in the cabinets. Mason and I set our bags on the counter.
“Fine. Yes. You’ve got a big ol’ bubbly hockey ass. Now take it over there and leave me out of your sexual tension with my brother.” I pushed him away and unpacked thegroceries.
Having two lawyers as parents didn’t allow much time for home-cooked meals, but my mother always tried. She would cookPaskhaorSolyanka, trying to remember her mother’s old recipes from Russia. She didn’t always get them right, turning out more than a few inedible dishes. But when she got it correct, she got it perfect. It was how she kept her culture alive in herself and inher kids.
Thekashaand cabbage rolls didn’t take long to prepare. Mom would always make them after my games, and when she was gone, Drew took over. They were healthy, filling, and comforting—perfect forgame days.
After we all quickly changed out of our suits, Drew designated me as the official chopper as he puttered around the kitchen, ingredients flying around him in a controlled tornado. I dutifully sliced the vegetables and didn’t stab Mason when he stole bites. Little gremlin.
It took more than a little fumbling around, but the cabbage rolls andkashacame out more or lessauthentic.
“Wait for them to cool,” Drew warned when Mason got too close to the rolls on the counter.
“But I’m hungry,” he whined like the man-child he was.
“How about some drinks whilewe wait?”
Mason watched with horror as Drew cracked open the new bottle of vodka. “Oh,dear God.”
“Yes,” I cheered and retrieved the cranberry juice from the fridge.
Drew scrunched his nose. “A real Russian does not sully good vodka with fruity crap.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to wake up outside again. So…” I flipped him off with one hand and grabbed the vodka withthe other.
Chapter 4
The hulking figure sped toward me from the middle of the ice, a puck flittering off the lightning-fast stick and bouncing around the blurring skates. He was coming left. Then right. No,it’s left.
I pushed off my skates to intercept, but the puck disappeared. Where… There!
I dove to the right. There was no time to get my blocker up. I sprawled on the ice, and the puck slammed into my chest pads. Air burst frommy lungs.
I flopped onto my back, dropped my glove, and pulled off my helmet. The ice cooled my sweat-slicked hair. “Ouch.”
Mason laughed and retrieved the puck from where it bounced off me. “And it’s Warren with the sacrifice block,” he announced, his voice booming around the empty practice rink. Then he crouched, looking down at me. “You know this isn’t the cup finals, right?”
I heaved myself to my knees, and Mason stood to give me a hand the rest of the way up. I adjusted my pads and shot him a smirk. “It’s worth it to keep your ego in check. Can’t have you thinking you’retoo good.”
Mason snorted and skated off to the bench. I followed, chuckling. All hockey players have some ego. Every athlete does—they have to in order to perform. But compared to all the other professional athletes I’ve met, Mason was the least egotistical. He was the true embodiment of a team player—never taking credit for his team’s work and doing everything in his power to make sure he was friends with his teammates. And with a personality like his, everybodyloved him.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for me. For the entire year and change that I was on the Seattle Blades, I didn’t make a single friend on the team. It was partially because of the nature of a goalie—the position being the most solitary one on the ice—but it was also because I didn’t try. There was no need to; I had tried making friends with my male teammates for years, and the outcome was alwaysthe same.
“Well, my ego isn’t the thing that’s bruised here, is it?” Mason raised an eyebrow at me.
I grimaced and snagged my water bottle, refusing to rub my aching chest. The puck had caught me right in the tit. I didn’t think it would bruise, but it was definitely sore. Unlike Mason, I wore full pads for practice, but pucks still hurt. I flipped him off in retaliation, but he didn’t notice, looking over myshoulder.
“Kingston,” Mason shouted suddenly, almost making me choke onmy water.
