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She shakes her head. “I can’t chase you.”
I shove a hand through my hair before removing my arm from around her and twisting my body so we’re facing each other. My legs are long, and my muscles are too tight from my workout this morning, so I have to stretch them out along her sides, forcing her to sit with me wrapped all around her. Placing my hands on her bent knees, I lean close.
“Then let me chase you.” I press my thumb to her bottom lip, feeling how soft and warm it is. How kissable her mouth must be . . . “I’ll follow you anywhere. No matter what, I’ll make it happen.”
Her electric-blue eyes hold my stare with expertise, trapping me in her bubble. “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”
“Promise me something,” I whisper, dropping my forehead to hers. Our noses brush ever so slightly. God, I’m breathless.
“Anything,” she replies instantly.
I press my mouth to the corner of her soft lips and exhale. “Be my best friend forever. No matter what. Even when we fight or the distance between us grows. Promise you’ll fight for us as hard as I will.”
“I promise,” she lies.
1
MADDOX
NINE YEARS LATER, AGE TWENTY-SIX
My thighs burn,the muscles tight and heavy with fatigue, but I don’t slow down. If anything, the pain only pushes me to pick up my pace. In a blink, I’m shaking off the two Vegas Crowns players trying to tag team me and driving toward my target.
A smirk twists my mouth when I catch one of their defensemen by surprise and poke the puck out from right in front of him as he tries to clear it from their zone. Arrogance brightens my disposition as I bump his shoulder a bit harder than necessary and take off, leaving him spitting my name through his mouthguard. It’s my second breakaway of the game.Fuck yeah.
Drops of sweat fall from my forehead and hang off my eyelashes as I close in on the goalie, his six-five frame doing a great job of blocking the net. Travis MacAvoy is one tough son of a bitch, but he’s also weak on the glove hand. It’s been a running joke with the team since we got on the plane and flew to Vegas yesterday.Travis MacAvoy couldn’t even stop a beachball.
We’ve kicked Vegas ass tonight—leading by three with ten minutes left to play. The rumours about good ol’ Travis have held up, but with my sights set on that sweet spot of netting peeking out from behind his left shoulder, I ache to test the theory again.
I calm my breathing and flash a smile at the crowd before tightening my grip on my stick and snapping a shot off. It all happens so fast, just how I like it. The goal horn blares at the same time I quickly turn my skates to the side and come to a stop at the boards behind the net, snow flying.
The fans are silent, disappointment pungent in the air, and it only makes me smile wider. I wave a gloved hand at the ones sitting behind the boards, dripping in black and gold, their scowls etched deep. One bulky guy with a receding hairline and Vegas tattoos on his cheeks flips me the bird and boos loudly, encouraging the people close by to do the same. The sound spreads through the arena, and I soak it in, loving every second.
A body crashes into me from behind, and I laugh when my left winger and good friend, Bentley Daniels, claps the top of my helmet and jostles me around.
“Quickest shot in the league, baby!” he shouts in my ear.
There’s nothing to do but grin and let the remaining Vancouver Warriors players on the ice join in on the celebration. The adrenaline in my blood cools as we break apart and I head to the bench, swinging my body over the boards. A water bottle is handed to me, and I grab it with a dip of my head before squirting the cold liquid all over my face and into my mouth.
The game clock ticks down as our second line works to keep the puck away from Vegas. The home team pulls their goalie with a minute left in the game, and Coach smacks me on the back as our lines switch again. I head back out to the ice and roll my shoulders as my linemates fall beside me and get into position, prepared to help our goalie secure his eleventh shutout of the season.
“Ready?” I ask them both as we set up for a faceoff.
On my left, Bentley grins wickedly while Logan Hart nods on my right. I rest my stick across my thighs, pushing down on it as I bend at the waist, and then tap the heel of my skate on the ice three times.
I nod. “Bring it home, boys.”
* * *
Freshly showered,I sit between Bentley and one of our best defensemen, Colt Warner, at a table in the media room with a microphone, a bottle of water, and a sea of reporters in front of me. The game ended half an hour ago, and like usual, we’re the first players out of the dressing room.
The flashing lights make my skin itch, but after spending the past seven years in front of this level of media, it’s become less terrifying. Everyone wants to talk to the captain, even when he would rather be anywhere else.
Bentley finishes answering a question about our next game and what we’re hoping to accomplish—a win, obviously—when another reporter speaks up. He stands and introduces himself from one of the bigger sports reporting websites while I give him my attention.
“Maddox, can you describe how it feels to have another four-point game?”
Two goals and two assists.I clear my throat and rest my elbows on the table, leaning toward the mic. The reporter is familiar, like most of them are at this point. He wears an easygoing smile, and it helps settle the nerves I can’t seem to get to piss off.
