We’re going to lose out on our chance at the championship before our season has even begun. This time last year, we were undefeated. Hell, we were undefeated for most of the year. But now, we’re losing, and Coach is pissed.
He’s throwing things in the locker room, taking it out on anyone and everyone. And as he rounds on me, I put up a blank-faced mask. Because I know what he’s going to say. I let Josh Maverick get under my fucking skin, and he skated circles around me.
I stare at my skates as Coach rips into me, his face red. Spit flies out of his mouth. We all take it, though, because we know we’re playing like asswipes.
All I want to do is punch the smug expression off Maverick’s face. It’s the least he deserves.
And that guy who touched Aspen.
How fucking dare he?
If she was wearing my jersey, no one would touch her.
But then Coach has run out of steam—for now—and it’s time to go play the last period. I take one last gulp of water and run my hands through my hair, then grab my stick and helmet. I march after Knox, keeping my head raised.
We may be playing like garbage, but we’re not so far behind that we can’t pull this off.
Knox and the Knights’ center face-off. Josh leers at me, his expression so fucking cocky, my grip on my stick tightens. He’s fucking dead.
I glance over at Aspen, who’s sitting squashed between Violet and her roommate in that fucker’s jersey, and it pisses me off even more.
The ref drops the puck, and Knox edges out the Knight. He flicks it toward me. I take control for a second, the feel of the puck gliding along my blade pulling my focus straight back to the game. I drive it forward and slip around one of our opponents, then shoot it up toward Finch. He takes possession and sprints toward the goal. We’re right there with him. I should be hanging back a little, but the urge to stuff Josh’s face overtakes me again.
I block him from interfering. He’s at my back, trying to get around me, but I skate in his way again. His arm is on my back, trying to shove me away.
Finch passes to Devereux, who sends it back to the right defense, Tony Rodrigues. He shoots it to Knox, who goes for the goal. He fakes the goalie out at the last second by feigning left. The goalie falls for it, reaching, and Knox sends it smoothly through his open legs.
Okay, great.
But Josh Maverick is still pushing at my back, and I’m fucking tired of him.
So I do the rational thing—I fist the front of his jersey to keep him at the right distance and punch him in the mouth.
He reels back, anger contorting his expression.
Yes, fucking fight me.
I almost say it out loud.
He lunges for me, coming for my face, and I struggle with him. We hit the glass, vying for control. I rip his helmet off and punch him again. His knuckles collide with my jaw, and pain explodes across my face. I lose my helmet, too.
No one is interfering. The whole stadium is quiet outside the buzzing in my ears.
I hit him again, and he wobbles. Without hesitation, I grab his jersey with both hands, my fingers wrapping under the padding at the edges of his armpits, and throw him to the ice. I land on top of him, drawing my fist back and punching him once, twice.
When I climb off him, I register the noise of the crowd.
Everyone is screaming, cheering. My gaze goes right to the siren in this fucker’s jersey.
She’s on her feet, too, and her green eyes burn into me from a distance.
I can’t tell if she’s happy or upset that I put him in his place—but it doesn’t fucking matter.
“Penalty box,” Coach snaps when I return to the bench. The refs are beside him. “And get your fucking stick, O’Brien, for god’s sake.”
I salute him and collect my fallen items. Devereux slaps me on the back, then Miles Whiteshaw. Then his brother. Rodrigues and Finch both pump their fists in the air. I smirk and skate to the box across from the benches. An official holds it open for me, and I step up into it. I sit down carefully, my muscles aching.
My nose is wet with blood.
The official hands me a towel, his expression stoic.
Power play for the Knights. But Josh Maverick is sidelined, hopefully for the rest of the game. Pretty sure his ugly mug will look hideous tonight, and that’ll lessen any chance of Aspen going home with him.
Not that he’ll get the chance. Because twenty minutes later, we score again. Two to one. And we hold them off until the final second ticks down.
I sit on the porch of the hockey house with Miles. We have tomorrow off, which means getting drunk is in order. And we’re well on our way.
Inside, the party is growing bigger and louder. Miles and Knox own the house we live in, and they spent a good chunk of change renovating it over the summer. It’s only right that the first party comes on the heels of our first win. We’re christening it.
There’s something nostalgic about the smell of beer, the sound of music and laughter, and the cool night air.
Miles nudges me, jerking his head toward the sidewalk. Violet and Willow are already inside, but I’d bet anything that they invited these two.
Aspen and her roommate, whose name I should probably find out. If only so I can stop calling her the roommate. It’s a mouthful.
But Aspen is still wearing that fucker’s jersey. Her hair is down, and the black leggings under the jersey hug her curves.
Still.
I rise and block their way onto the porch. Aspen doesn’t seem surprised. She tips her head back and meets my gaze, her hands on her hips. I don’t want her here tonight. I just want to get drunk and hang out with my friends and go to bed. Alone, obviously, since I haven’t been able to get a hard-on for anyone except her.
And we’re not doing that tonight.
“Sorry, no enemy fangirls allowed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on.”
“No enemy jerseys allowed,” I correct, smirking at her. “You can remove it if it’s that important for you to get in.”
Her eyes narrow, and she seems to contemplate it for a minute.
Then her fingers go to the edge of the jersey.
My chest tightens as she pulls the fabric up, exposing the rest of her high-waisted leggings. Then the pale skin of her upper stomach, her ribcage… and then her bra. Black lace. Her nipples are fucking visible through it, hardening in a way that is intimately familiar.
If only we weren’t outside with the world watching. What used to be a turn-on is now a curse. I don’t want anyone staring at her, and she seems set on attracting all the attention.
“What are you doing?” I growl before I can stop myself.
She removes the jersey the rest of the way, dropping it on the sidewalk beside her. Now her hair looks just-fucked, and she stands in front of me in a bra and leggings.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?
“I’m going to the party.” She bats her eyelashes at me. And she slips past me, dragging her roommate with her.
They go up the porch, past Miles, and into the house.
I turn and track her, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth might crack. Miles has his mouth covered, hiding his growing laughter.
“That backfired,” he murmurs.
I’m going to kill her.
I storm after her, my feet moving before my brain can catch up. She hasn’t made it far—there’s a lot of fucking people in the house, and they don’t give a shit about two girls trying to force their way deeper inside.
But for me, they move out of the way.
I grab her hips and haul her over my shoulder. She screeches and flails, knocking the drink out of someone’s grasp. I band her thighs to my chest before she can do anything else, and her hands land on my shoulders. She’s more upright, hovering above me, but I shift her until her ass is higher up. Her balance betrays her, and she folds again.
The people get out of my way, their eyes wide.
I’m sure I can guess why.
I’ve never had an interest in girls beside the occasional fuck. But even then, I usually hit it and quit it. Never recycle the same girl twice, or else they’ll start getting ideas.
Aspen, though… the thought of anyone else seeing her nipples is more than I can bear. We talked about this, and she broke the rules.
Again.
I bring her upstairs and to the first bedroom on the left. My room. It takes me a second to unlock it—a necessary measure for parties, if I want my bed to remain unsullied—go inside, and kick the door shut behind us.
My bed is made, my room mostly neat. It could be better, but I’m not ashamed of it. Or the clear message the lotion on my nightstand sends. That I beat my dick in here alone most nights. If I’m not sinking into Aspen anyway. Which is what it wants right now.
I toss her onto the bed and step back, eyeing her.
She shoots up immediately, her hands balling into fists.
Cute. She’s mad.
“What the fuck?” she seethes.
I go to my closet and unzip my duffle bag. I was going to wash this, but fuck it. If she wants to wear a jersey so bad…
When I turn back around, she hasn’t moved. I shake out the dark-blue material, adjusting my grip so I can put her into it. She doesn’t even object when I put it over her head, then grab her wrists and guide her arms through.
It dwarves her.
My cock thickens, and the urge to take her like this is overwhelming. She looks good in my jersey—better than in red and white, that’s for fucking sure.
“You wore his jersey to piss me off.”
She lifts one shoulder. “You snuck into my room and fucked me without my consent, then tossed money on me. Which is exactly what that guy at the game had in mind, by the way.”
Her green eyes are so intense, I can only stare at her for a second.
“Did you leak my address?”
Now that’s new. “What? To who?”
“To the sick fucks who want to try and toss money on my stomach for a quick fuck.” She crosses her arms.
I can’t even blame her for being mad. A simple joke got out of control. How was I supposed to know that would happen?
But I suppose it is my job to make it right.
“You and your roommate can’t go home?” I confirm.
She scowls at me. “We drove by it after the game. There were some guys waiting across the street… I don’t know if they were waiting for me or not, but I can only assume.”
I stiffen.
That is fucked.
“You’ll stay here. And I don’t want to fucking hear it, little viper. You said it yourself—it’s my fault. So you can sleep here until we get it figured out.”
Maybe Jacob will have some solutions. He graduated last year, and he was one of our better players. He’s off playing the big leagues now, but his dad is a cop. It’s a long shot, and I have a feeling doxing an address is one of those things that you can’t stuff back into the box.
“And Thalia, too?”
I nod emphatically. Really, I don’t give a shit where her roommate goes. But sure, if it means Aspen will stay.
Wait, why am I suddenly so eager for her to stay here?
“There’s an empty bedroom she can stay in.”
Aspen’s lips twitch. “And I can’t stay in that empty bedroom with her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re staying in here.” I tilt my head. “Do you want me to show you why?”
“I want you to apologize for making me feel like—”
I shake my head and step forward. She stands her ground, which is new. New-ish. Reminiscent of the summer version of the girl in front of me. I run my finger down her jaw, which is clenched, to her throat, to the top of the jersey. Her breathing hitches when I curl my fingers into it.
It’s the same way I held Maverick during our fight, keeping him in the right position.
But now I use it to drag Aspen into me.
Her chest hits mine, and her breath whooshes out of her.
“You look good in my jersey,” I say in her ear. “But you look even better out of it.”
“Maybe I should change, then,” she offers lightly. Fake lightly. She’s just as affected by my presence as I am by hers. “Or I can go put on a strip show downstairs—”
“If you do that, a handprint on your thigh isn’t the only thing you’ll be walking out of here with.”
She tips her head back and bites her lip. She reaches out and puts her hands on my chest. Her palms are hot, burning right through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“Promise?” she whispers.
