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Chapter Two
Weston
"Move your feet, Romeo,"Kristján Jónsson calls, tapping my skate with his as he heads out of the locker room. He smirks at me as he goes, laughing to himself.
Fucker.
I flip him the bird before yanking my gloves on. Ever since I agreed to do a Valentine's Day date for charity, the guys have been giving me hell about it. They think it's hysterical. They wouldn't be so quick to laugh if they knew they'll all be getting a turn soon. Apparently, it's mandatory for all players not married or in a relationship…which is roughly 75% of the team. I'm just the first unlucky bastard to fall on the sword.
When you spend as much time in the penalty box as I do, you're bound to be the test dummy for one new promotional scheme or another. I could have to sit down with another interviewer and let her pry all into my personal business. So it could definitely be worse.
Okay, that's a lie. Taking a fan on a Valentine's Day date is the worst shit the team publicist, Kelsey Lane, has come up with in years. I'm positive she did it just to torture me. She's a sadist. I don't date, let alone whichever puck bunny they intend to throw at me for this date.
Unlike most guys on the team, screwing around with bunnies doesn't interest me. I'm here to play the game, not to get played by hockey groupies hoping to score big. I've seen that shit end in disaster one too many times in my life to be interested in making the same mistake.
Besides which, I tend to piss off most women. Contrary to popular belief, honesty isnotalways the best policy when it comes to the opposite sex. Telling them that the thought of them touching you makes your dick shrivel is, apparently, offensive.
I'm not going to lie about it though. The thought of any of them touching me makes my skin crawl. Which is why I haven't been laid since my rookie year. It never felt right to me. My parents were wildly in love before they were killed by a drunk driver nine years ago. I want the same shit for myself, not a long string of meaningless hook-ups.
I doubt I'm going to find love on a charity date. The entire thing is bound to be a fiasco. But Coach MacAthie and Kelsey are riding my ass about all the shit I've gotten into recently, so I'm taking one for the team. Literally.
One night in puck bunny hell, and then I'm home free.
"On the ice, Davies!" Coach shouts, poking his bald head into the locker room.
I grab my stick and head out, intending to hit the ice to warm up with the rest of the team. Pregame ice-time is mostly for show. The fans love it, and we love the fans, so we skate around and shoot a few pucks, giving them something to watch until game time.
I don't mind it. I've been on the ice for most of my life. It's home to me at this point, more familiar than the mansion I live in. But it's no secret that my time is almost up. Most guys don't make it past thirty. I'll be thirty-three in a few months.
"Excuse me? Mr. Davies?" a sweet voice calls as soon as I poke my head out into the arena.
It's already packed full of fans, a sea of yellow and blue staring back at me.
Jesus. Why are so many of them female tonight?
If they're all here over this date shit, I'm killing Coach and Kelsey.
I glance over my shoulder, intending to tell whoever is calling my name that I've got shit to do, only to come to a dead stop when I spot her standing just on the other side of the boards. Even my heart stops beating. For one long moment, everything stops. I gape like a lunatic, my mouth hanging open as if this is some cartoon. But fuck me. I can't help it.
If angels are real, this sweet little thing is one of them. Her curly hair is so blonde it's almost white. It frames her round face, setting off the bluest eyes I've ever seen and her pink cheeks. Her full bottom lip is caught between her teeth, red where she's been biting on it.
Not even the bulky Predators hoodie she's wearing hides her incredible tits, or her generous curves. The number over her chest—number 84…mynumber—has my dick turning to steel. Which is a problem since I'm wearing a cup.
"Can I speak to you for a moment?" she asks me in the softest voice I've ever heard.
"Heads up!" Theo Kline shouts at the same time.
I turn just enough to see the puck whipping through the air in her direction. She doesn't see it. Her eyes are locked on the ice at my feet.
I make a split-second decision and lunge forward, throwing myself between her and the puck coming at her like a missile.
People think helmets mean we don't feel hits to the head. They're wrong. A hard enough hit hurts like a motherfucker regardless of the helmet and can still cause serious problems. This is one of those that hurt.
The puck cracks me in the back of the head hard enough to rattle my teeth. The hit knocks me off-balance. I stumble into the boards, which puts me within inches of the heavenly little blonde who smells like strawberries. I grunt, my eyes stinging from the pain.
"Oh my gosh!" she cries out, her sweet voice full of distress. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine," I lie, waving off her concern. I'm not fine. Jesus Christ. That shit hurt like a son of a bitch.
