Fuck. He was so hot.
He flew across the ice, landing directly into the path of the player in possession of the puck, both of them colliding with the boards close to where I was sitting. The player who’d knocked into him straightened up, shaking his head with a grin, and number 39 growled out an apology.
That growl.
My stomach flipped.No. It couldn’t be.
But as I watched him launch the puck straight at the goal with vicious accuracy, I caught a glimpse of his thickly stubbled jawline beneath the helmet.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my hands gripping my thighs, my fingers digging into my flesh as I stared at the sight in front of me.
The practice continued around me, but I couldn’t focus on anything except number 39. Every movement he made confirmed what I already knew but didn’t want to accept. The way he skated with that same controlled aggression he’d shown at the club. The way he kept himself separate from the other players during their breaks, projecting that standoffish “leave me the fuck alone” aura that somehow made my dick hard and my heart race.
When the team gathered around their coach for what looked like a tactical discussion, I tore my gaze away from him, my heart hammering in my chest.
This was a disaster. A complete fucking disaster.
I slept with my brother’s teammate.
I slept with my brother’s teammate, and even worse, I wished I could do it again.
Burying my head in my hands, I groaned. Yeah. This was a complete and utter fucking disaster.
When I lowered my hands, the players were in the middle of another drill. Number 39 swung his stick for a slap shot that sent the puck flying toward the goal with so much force, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d dented the crossbar. Several players shouted in approval, but he kept his head down, not even acknowledging the praise of his teammates.
“How’re you doing?” Brayden’s voice made me jump, and after my moment of surprise, I glanced down to see him standing at the boards, a bottle of water in his hand.
“Good,” I managed, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt. “You guys are fucking brilliant.”
He shot me a grin. “This is nothing. Wait until you see us in an actual game.” He glanced behind him and then gesturedtoward number 39, who had his head tilted back, his throat working as he tipped a bottle of water to his lips. “You know how I mentioned some of the guys could be a bit intense? That guy over there is Cody Clements, our left wing. Practice is supposed to be no contact, but you probably saw what happened.”
Swallowing hard, I managed a faint nod.Cody Clements.
“Fucking grumpy bastard on and off the ice,” my brother continued, thankfully not noticing my reaction, “but he’s a machine, and he’s got our backs when it counts.”
Not Conan. Cody. I couldn’t be too mad about the fact he’d given me a fake name—after all, I’d done the same thing to him.
“Yeah…he does look intense,” I said carefully.
“That’s putting it mildly. He barely talks to anyone except when he has to. But like I said, he’s got our backs out there, and that’s what matters.” Brayden’s brows pulled together as he studied his teammate. “He’s really antisocial, so you might not get to meet him, even when I introduce you to the rest of the team after practice. He mostly keeps to himself. He never even comes to team dinners or social events.”
“Okay.” I tried to ignore the disappointment that filled me at his words. Thankfully, Brayden didn’t seem to notice, continuing to speak as he gestured towards the ice.
“Petrov—you know the guy who scored the winning goal in our last game?—can get in his own head, too, but it’s usually easy to shake him out of a bad mood. He’s normally easy-going…unless we’re in the middle of playoffs, like we are now. Speaking of, I should get back to it. Coach wants to run through some penalty kill scenarios.”
I watched him skate away, determined to keep my eyes on him, but my unwilling gaze was dragged back to Cody Clements.
Cody Clements, whose head rose, his gaze fixating on the stands where I was sitting. Even from this distance, and even though his face was obscured by his helmet, I could see his eyeswiden and his nostrils flare as we stared at one another for a long, charged moment.
Did he know? Had he realised that I was the one he’d fucked last night?
He spun away, executing a perfect turn as he focused his attention on the drill, but not before I caught the rigid set of his shoulders.
He’d seen me. He knew I was here.
And from the way he was pointedly avoiding looking in my direction again, it seemed like he might recognise me.
The rest of the practice passed in a blur. I tried to focus on Brayden, to enjoy watching my brother do what he loved, but my gaze kept sliding to his teammate. To the way he played with tightly controlled violence, the way he moved across the ice like he owned it, the way he looked out for and protected his teammates yet somehow managed to keep himself apart from them. He was so fucking mesmerising, it was impossible to keep my eyes off him.
