Icebound (Boundless Players)

“How many times you gonna get run over, Twelve?”

“Blue line’s over there, bud.”

“Nice penalty, Thirty. Attaboy!”

“You gotta hit me harder than that!”

Someone slams into Cruz, and we crumple on the ice. I’m instantly on top, pinning him on accident. This is a goddamn shit show. I can barely think straight with all the jealousy and adrenaline rattling my veins.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout in Cruz’s face. “I told you to focus and stop fucking around with Nina!”

“The jersey was a damn joke!”

“I don’t give a shit! I told you not to mess with her.”

“You know I’d never go after her, man,” Cruz shouts, struggling beneath me since I’ve got an extra fifty pounds of gear. “You’re leaving the net open! Get off me!”

Jolting back, I scan the rink. Cruz scrambles out from beneath me, grabs his stick, and skates back to the slot, giving me the finger. I push off some Seattle asshole and jump up. Patty crashes into an opposing player, trips him, and sticks go flying.

What the hell is he doing?

He never gets penalties for tripping. The piercing sound of the whistle reaches my ears, and that’s when I realize Patty is a goddamn mastermind, stopping play so Seattle can’t score.

The ref’s voice cuts through the chaos as he shouts in Patty’s face. I get up on my skates, mentally scolding myself for the stupid move I pulled.

I’m acting like a rookie, not a veteran who’s been skating for over two decades.

“Tremblay!” Coach’s voice shakes with barely contained rage as she barks, “You’re done for the night. Get your ass to the locker room. I hope I can trust you to keep your damn head straight in there because right now, you’re acting like a kid.”

I flinch as I skate up to the boards. She’s right, but that still lands like a blow. “I know. Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”

Coach Watson’s death glare shifts to Cruz. “Sit on the bench. Now. I can’t believe I have to babysit my own skaters like they’re children because I can’t trust them not to fight each other on the ice. You’re lucky we’re up, and we’ve got less than five minutes left in the period.”

As I skate out of the rink, head hanging low, Nina’s eyes weigh heavier on me than the weight of the crowd. I dodge her gaze because every time I see her standing there in Cruz’s number, it pisses me off.

Ever since he sent that picture of Nina in his jersey, it’s all I can think about. Those comments he made about how good she looked don’t help.

He’s been throwing out innuendos that hit me like knives. I have no reason to care, but I do, and I can’t stop thinking about what she would look like with my number on her back—better, that’s for damn sure.

With clenched fists, I stride into our locker room, careful to sidestep the Guardian sword logo out of respect, and I’m assaulted by the leather-scented air mixed with the faint undertone of sweat.

I yank off my helmet and go through the routine of removing my gear before slumping against my mahogany stall. My last name glints on the plaque like fool’s gold, teasing me as if I don’t belong.

I normally dominate the net, but tonight, I let my control slip. It’s downright embarrassing, especially at my age. I should be the one setting an example, keeping my composure.

Instead, I’m getting distracted by a girl who I have no right getting jealous over, but I can’t stop myself from imagining them together.

Nina doesn’t belong to me, and I’m not hers. I know this, don’t I know it, but all I can see is her smile directed at Cruz.

It was her real one, too, which hurts.

That’s the type of guy she belongs with—not a man who wakes up with lower back pain every morning. I run my hand through my damp hair, trying not to rip out the strands. I’ve never lost it this much over a girl.

It’s got to be the adrenaline.

Yeah, it’s the adrenaline.

A door slams.

My jaw locks up. That better not be Cruz. I don’t want to deal with the kid right now.

Patty thunders into the humid locker room, and my back muscles relax until I realize his usual golden-boy demeanor has been replaced by a storm of fury. In a flash, he grips my jersey and shoves me against the wooden stalls.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he screams inches from my face. “What the fuck were you thinking fighting Cruz in the middle of a game? This isn’t the fucking minors!”

Holy shit. The man never curses.

His fist shakes, so I keep my voice steady. “I wasn’t thinking. Simple as that. I’m not making excuses. Sorry, man, I know I fucked up, and it won’t happen again.”

“Damn right, you did.” He slams his fist against the wood. I’ve never seen Patty lose it like this. “What’s Cruz been saying to you, huh? Better have been something about fucking your sister since I got thrown out of the game for starting shit to save your ass. Thirty-Eight knew not to fight back too, so you’re lucky this is a blowout.”

“He made some comments about Nina that I didn’t like, so I’m not repeating them. I lost it for a second, but I’m good now.”

Patty grunts, releasing his grip on me. Without warning, he spins around and hammers a fist against the wood. The noise vibrates the skates dangling in my stall.

“That’s what this is about?” he shouts. “A girl? You’re shitting me, right?”

I throw off my pads, needing something to focus on so I don’t have to look at the scowl on his face. He’s right to judge me, but it doesn’t mean I like it.

Patty squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to calm himself down. “I got thrown out of the game after my daughter said her first word, which wasn’t ‘daddy,’ and you’re worrying about a girl? Do you hear yourself right now, Tremblay?”

“Aw, shit.” All the tension drains from my shoulders. “I’m sorry, man.”

He runs his fingers through his disheveled blond hair, chest heaving as he collapses onto the bench. Nina, Cruz, and the game are still on my mind, but Patty’s defeated slump feels more important right now.

Gripping his shoulder, I take a seat beside him. “Was it ‘fuck?’”

Patty scoffs. “No. I wish. It’d be better than what she said. At least that’d be a good story.”

“What was it?”

He rests his elbows on his knees, hanging his head. “It was Nanna. She looked my mom dead in the eye, giggled, and said, ‘Nanna,’ while I was standing right there mashing some potatoes for her.”

He looks so beaten down that sympathy hits me like a puck to the glove. “I mean, you do have two moms, so it’s two against one for the Nanna versus Daddy battle.”

He focuses on the ground, not acknowledging my comment. “Yeah, I guess. I got in Betty’s face and started saying Dadda, and she cried, and then I had to leave for the game.”

He kicks a helmet on the ground. “Sorry, I lost it on you, but I’ve been in a shit mood. It feels like I’m missing half of my daughter’s life being in the League. I’m lucky I’ve got my moms for support, but they’re practically the ones raising her. I’m a shitty dad. Sometimes—” he stops.

“What?”

His knuckles whiten. “I can’t say it.”

“You can. No judgment. I know I’m not a father, but I’m a good listener.”

“Sometimes… Fuck. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a dad. She deserves someone better,” he says like he’s shoving the words from his mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud. I love Betty, more than anything in this world, but this isn’t what I thought my life would look like at twenty-six, and it’s so damn hard being a single parent. I thought it would be easy because I love her so much, but it’s not.”

His voice cracks, so I tighten my grip on his shoulder. “I’m not a father, so I can’t offer much advice, but I know that little girl is lucky to have you as a dad. I thought my life would look more like yours at thirty-three. Want to trade?”

That gets me a genuine laugh, but then he sighs. “No. I’d never trade lives, even when it’s hard. But when I’m on the ice, I feel like I should be with her. Then, when I’m with her, I miss being on the ice because it’s where I feel the most like myself. It’s like the only thing I’m good at is fucking up.”

“Hey, that’s not true.”

“All I can say is don’t have kids unless you’re sure about the person you want to raise them with because parenting sucks. Don’t tell anyone I said that though because I have to act like I love everything about it.”

Patty goes off on a tangent, talking about all the parts of fatherhood he normally keeps hidden.

Yeah, I’ve changed a few diapers, and I drove Wyn to golf lessons growing up, but I haven’t seen the gritty parts of being a father—the struggles with giving up your identity as a man. I don’t know my identity without hockey, so I’m not sure how I can be a dad to someone when I barely know myself.

Patty looks up with green eyes rimmed with red. “Anyway, enough of that. Distract me with something else, so I don’t start bawling like Betty before the team comes back. What’s going on with your girl? Every time she walks into a room, you track her like a puck.”

I rub my face like that’ll scrub her from my brain. “She’s in my head, but it makes me feel like an ass because I know this won’t go anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“She’s leaving for Argentina in July. I might want her, but it doesn’t mean I can have her, and I’m way too old for her. Cruz points it out all the damn time. We’d never work long-term. We’re too different.”

Patty shrugs. “Then fuck her out of your system.”

“What? No. There’s no chance I’m doing that.”

“Look, I know this’ll make me sound like a dick, but in my experience, if you can’t get someone out of your head, it’s best to get them out of your system.”

I keep my voice low in case someone hears, whispering my deepest thought. “What if that doesn’t work?”

“Then, you’re fucked because it’ll just make you want more of what you can’t have.”

“I’ll be honest, that’s some really shitty advice, man.”

He tosses me a glower. “What? Am I supposed to be perfect all the time ‘cause I’m a parent? Fuck that. I’m allowed to make mistakes. I’ve got years before I have to give Betty dating advice. I’ll figure out something more poetic by that point.”

“I’d listen to you wax poetic with that country twang any day.” I slap his shoulder, pulling him closer. “All jokes aside, though… I’m not a dad, but you know I’m always here for you, alright? You need a babysitter? I got you. You need someone to listen? I’ve got big ears. League or not, I’m here.”

We sniff, wiping our eyes like real men.

“Why you gotta say shit like that, Tremblay? You know I cry all the damn time now. Come on, there’s gonna be a stampede in here soon, and I don’t want to deal with Cruz seeing me all weepy. We’ve still got media interviews, and they’re gonna give me shit for that tripping penalty.”

My molars grind together. The mention of Cruz brings Nina back to the forefront of my mind. That feisty, sarcastic girl gnaws at the edges of my thoughts for the next hour as I go through my postgame routine.

Patty’s wrong. I shouldn’t fuck her into the mattress just to get her out of my system—no matter how hard I get at the thought.

I’m at a stage where I need to settle down, not go off globetrotting to Argentina, even though it’d be nice to travel for fun instead of going from city to city and never stepping foot outside an arena. She’s in her twenties. She should be living it up, but that’s not who I am anymore.

I shower, answer bullshit media questions, and get reamed by Coach, who’s rightfully angry. Monday morning practice is going to be hell on steroids.

After the reporters bombard me with retirement questions, I slap Patty’s shoulder. “Alright, I’m heading out. Watch out for that new reporter in the bowtie. He’s a jackass.”

“You figure out what you’re doing with your girl?”

“She’s not mine, and I’m not listening to your advice, that’s for sure,” I call over my shoulder.

Grabbing my gym bag, I stride out of the locker room in my navy game-day suit and the flower tie Wyn gave me, set on avoiding Nina, but then, I see her in the hallway, laughing, smiling right next to Cruz.

My entire body heats, and this intense shot of possession jolts through me. I’ve never felt anything like it before.

What’s she still doing here?

She’s leaning against the concrete talking to Cruz, but when I finally pull my gaze up, I realize she’s not looking at him.

No.

Those pretty hazels are locked on me.

Her eyes draw me in like I’m under her spell, but when Cruz grips the part of her jersey hanging off Nina’s shoulder, irritation ignites, blazing right through my self-control. My resolve snaps at the sight of his hands on her.

I don’t want him touching her.

I don’t want anyone touching her, but me.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself. “Patty’s right.”

Every filthy thought I’ve tried to smother floods my mind. Those breathy little noises she made when I rubbed my cock all over her in the kitchen. I picture those full lips wrapped around me, sucking me off like I’m her favorite meal.

I imagine shoving my tongue so deep inside her that I’ll never get rid of her taste, licking every inch of her wet pussy, pushing Nina up against the wall, and burying myself to the hilt, fucking her hard like that’ll push her from my head.

She could take all of me. I know it.

I’ll probably come in two seconds once I’m inside her, but that means I’ll get to go down on my knees for this girl. I don’t care that she’s too young or that we’re all wrong for each other.

I want her.

I want her bad.

And if she’ll have me, I’ll make her feel so fucking good.

Striding past the Hall of Fame jerseys, I walk right up to her, nudging Cruz out of the way like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust. I’m not going to fight the kid.

It wouldn’t be fair for him.

“Come with me?” I murmur in her ear, hoping like hell she doesn’t say no, but it’s her call. I lean against the wall, trying not to look too feral.

She arches one brow. “You’re going to have to ask me nicer than that.”

Reaching out, I use my thumb to stroke the curve of her inner wrist, right where her pulse quickens.

Her breath catches, so I squeeze, just a little. “I’m not in the mood to be nice.”