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“Noted,” I laugh, handing the stack over so she can ring me up.
She pauses on the last book and as she glances at me and smirks. “Do hockey players generally do it for you?”
“Inappropriate question,” yells the voice from upstairs.
My cheeks are on fire, and I know my entire face is beet red.
Before I can answer—which is good, because I had no idea how to respond—she pats my shoulder and says, “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. See you in two weeks. 5pm. We provide snacks.”
I grab my bag, duck my head, and pull up the turtleneck just a smidge.
She has no idea who I am, that I have a brother who plays professional hockey, got pregnant by his old teammate—a hockey player. Or that I got finger-banged by another hockey player I’m supposed to be fake dating.
Fake dating and most certainlynotdeveloping any sort of real feelings for because despite what happened last night, Foster is very much emotionally unavailable.
And a player.
And I don’t mean the hockey kind.
Do hockey players generally do it for you?
Considering I have a whole mantra about not falling for another hockey player again, I guess they do, Holly Hope.
I guess they fucking do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
This game isn’t starting out very good for the Dallas Oilers. One and a half minutes in, Linc catches a rebound as it bounces off the boards behind the goalie and sails the puck toward the net. It deflects off a pair of skates and sneaks right past their goalie for an epic goal.
Their fans are on their feet booing us and telling our fans that are peppered around the arena to sit the fuck down. I can’t help but smile. Hockey fans are dedicated to their team, and if you’re not on it, they can be vicious. I love it.
Not to mention, the more hate the Oiler’s fans throw our way, the more confident we get on the ice—especially after scoring within the first few minutes of the game.
We look good, and I’m not saying that because the Devils are my team, but because I think we finally have a good rhythm. We might even make the playoffs this year, but I don’t dare say anything like that out loud.
I don’t want to jinx us.
Their center growls at me as the puck drops. He’s trying to give me the evil eye, but that shit doesn’t work on me. Compared to Rhett, he’ll be the least intimidating person on the ice today. I just smirk, beating him to the puck and passing it to Tag who shoots it to Lincoln.
The Bruiser Brothers hang back at the blue line while the three of us take the biscuit to the other side of the ice, right in the middle of their territory.
The second Linc passes the puck back to me, I’m boxed in against the boards by two Dallas players as we fight for control. I manage to pop it loose, but Bennet, one of Dallas’ right wingers, manages to snag it before Tag can get to it. He flies around behind their goal, but Linc intercepts, regaining puck control, and as Bennet closes back in on him, passes it my way. I’m in front of the goal at prime scoring position.
It’s the perfect setup, and as I line up for my signature slap-shot, I know it’ll go in.
I can fucking taste it.
It might be the extra boost knowing that Avery is watching me right now.
And that she’s in my jersey.
There’s also some primal caveman version of me that knows I marked her last night, and even though she’s not mine, it almost feels like she is.
I line up and take the shot.
The goalie is living on the right side of the net, and he’s moving slow tonight. Their defenders are flying to the goal to intercept, but it zips through them, passes the goalie on his left, pings off the post, and slides into the net.
The buzzer goes off and Linc, Tag, Ian, and Owen surround me in a quick hug before heading back for shift change.
