years ago, with three Vezina Trophies under his belt. Quite frankly, he’s a beast and a huge asset to this team—when he’s on his game, that is—so I’m hoping a little extra attention might go a long way.
I have an idea of what got his jock strap in a twist; I simply need to dig deeper to get to the root of it. Something, or rather someone, turned him from the easygoing, mysterious badass to an instigator who started picking fights with everyone. Not only that, but he was publicly accused of hitting a woman.
Now, before you start thinking he’s a bad guy, the woman recanted her statement, but never openly admitted that she lied. Instead, she chose to disappear off the grid. I personally believe she did fabricate the story—if I didn’t, I would’ve kicked Rush’s ass myself—I simply don’t know why she did it, but I intend to find out.
Trust me, there are more who need my attention, but I’m only one man, and right now, getting Kingston back on top of his game is my only focus. He’s my priority and I’m giving him one last shot.
“Good luck out there tonight,” someone calls from my left.
I nod my head, keeping my focus internal. Or trying to. For me, this is usually the easy part. Key word being usually. Unfortunately, the phone call from this afternoon has fucked my world to shit, and usually isn’t cutting it.
I know you’re getting ready for a game, but I need to tell you something and it can’t wait.
Shaking my head, I try to dispel that stupid voice, to stop it from rattling around in my brain. It seems to be stuck there.
This thing between us… Well, I don’t see it going anywhere. You’re too focused on yourself, and I deserve more attention than you give me.
More attention, my fucking ass.
If I don’t get my head in the game, this is going to be one fucked-up night. I’m ready to tear someone limb for limb with my bare hands, and it’s been nearly three hours since she called me.
I’ve met someone, Kingston. He’s nice and funny. He’s an architect, by the way. Good money, you know. And oh, he’s … God, he’s great in bed.
The words still feel like a slap, taking me completely by surprise.
Don’t get me wrong, you’re not … bad. He’s just better.
I heard her fucking giggling, for fuck’s sake. Then she moaned.
Fucking bitch!
There is so much going on around me it takes every ounce of mental fortitude to tune it out. Generally, I’ve got one thing in my head right before a game. Tonight’s cerebral billboard should read like this: Focus. Puck, patience. React. Focus. Puck, patience. React.
Nothing else.
For an hour before the game, that should be the only thing that flutters through my gray matter. I started that early on in my career, casting all the other bullshit out of my head. And it usually works for me. Right now, it’s doing dick to get my mind where it needs to be. It’s all I can do to keep pacing, tapping my stick every so often as I try to draw up mental images of how I expect this to play out. Instead, I can practically see her lying there, another man hovering over her.
Fuck.
The sad part is, I wasn’t that close to her anyway. Our relationship was more superficial than anything, and it was by no means serious. For fuck’s sake, I wasn’t in love with her, I’m merely taken aback by her … execution. Not to mention the timing of it.
Someone taps me on the head with their glove, then another. I know my teammates are silently wishing me luck. It’s what they do. It’s what we all do. I won’t say that I don’t need it—tonight especially—because anything can happen on that ice. But I was fucking born for this, and that means I need to shut the rest of the shit off and focus.
Focus. Puck, patience. React.
“We’ve got this, Rush,” another teammate calls as he passes.
You’re damn right we do.
Oh, and you might want to turn down the dirty talk.
I try to block out the voice in my head, but I can’t. She had the fucking audacity to call me three hours before the game. A very important game, I might add. These days, every game is important considering we’re hovering at the edge of being in