Rooming With My Ex-Mate's Hockey Star Brother

TREY

I tug at the front of my jersey, then point at her jacket. ”You wore it.” ℯ

”I said I would.” She cocks a brow. ”Did you think I was lying?”

”No. I wanted a closer look.” My gaze moves over her once. ”It looks better on you.”

Her smile stumbles, and she turns her face away before I can enjoy it properly. When she faces me again, she points firmly toward the ice. ”Go warm up.”

”Trying to get rid of me already?”

”I’m trying to help you win.” She glances at the seats around her. ”Besides, I worked hard enough to get into this spot. I’d like to actually watch you play from it.

”What do you mean, worked hard?”

”Dixie was sitting here with her friends. They didn’t want to move.”

My grip shifts on my stick. ”Did someone check your tickets?”

”Yes, Trey. We’re sitting here, aren’t we?” She leans closer to the railing. ”I’ll tell you later. Right now, warm up.”

I hold her gaze for another second, but she points me back toward the ice.

”Keep the jacket on,” I tell her. ”It’s helping.”

She laughs and says something the music swallows. I tilt my head, and she leans closer. ”I said good luck, Trey.”

I give her a nod and push away from the bench before I’m tempted to stay for the rest of warmups.

Pucks are already moving between the guys, so I join in and take a few shots on net. Whenever the drill brings me past the bench, I look up, and Sadie meets my eyes every time. Girls along the glass are blowing kisses at us. It wouldn’t kill Sadie to blow me one too, but I’d probably have better luck asking a coconut.

At the warmup horn, we head back to the locker room while the ice is resurfaced. We return first for introductions, with Providence following a few seconds later. Our starting lineup comes over the speakers, and I catch one last glimpse of Sadie behind the bench before skating to the opening faceoff.

The puck drops.

********************

With a little over two minutes left in the third, we’re tied at two, and Providence has spent the last few shifts making us defend our own end.

We clear the puck and get fresh legs on when we can, only to have them come straight back at us. I’m getting tired of giving a conference opponent this much time with the puck.

Their forward, Dylan Price, brings the puck across our blue line along the right boards. He’s a rough bastard who’s spent the night trying to put someone through the glass, but his hands are quick enough that I can’t write him off as muscle.

Walker keeps his stick extended to hold Price outside while I move toward the middle to cover the space behind him.

Price finds half a step and pulls the puck toward the slot. His stick comes back, but Walker drops to one knee in the shooting lane. The shot cracks off his shin pad and kicks out toward Scott near the faceoff circle.

”Scott!” I yell.

A Providence player closes on him. Scott takes one stride to give himself room, then sends the puck up the boards. I catch it just short of center ice and push ahead, building speed as I cross into their zone.

One defender backs toward his net, watching my shoulders. I carry the puck wide to make him follow, then cut in toward the faceoff dot. He shifts across to close me down, but I’ve already got the angle I want.

I snap the shot off before he can get his stick in the way.

The goaltender drops, reaching across as the puck passes him and catches the far side of the net.

The goal horn goes off.

For a second, the sound of the crowd is so loud that I can’t hear myself shout. I turn away from the net with my stick raised, and Scott nearly crashes into me.

”Did you see that pass?” he yells.

”I did something with it, didn’t I?” I pull him closer for a second. ”Good work, Scotty.”

Walker joins us, tapping his stick against my shin pad. ”You’re welcome for the block.”

”I was about to thank your leg.”

He laughs as the rest of the guys crowd in, gloves knocking against helmets and shoulders. By the time we separate, the scoreboard reads Boreal 3, Providence 2. There’s 1:48 left.

I skate toward our bench, where the guys waiting for their next shift are leaning over the boards with their gloves out. Nash is among them, grinning as he leans out.

”Showing off for somebody, Cap?”

”Play the game, asswipe.”

”I am. You keep looking over there.”

He’s right, which doesn’t mean he needs to hear it. I glance past him toward the seats behind the glass.

Sadie is on her feet.

When she catches me looking, I tap the seven on my jersey and point to her. Her mouth opens, and she points at herself as if she needs to check who I mean.

I nod, and her teammates start yelling like I’ve just scored a second goal.

Sadie tries to duck behind Nia, but they’re making far too much noise for the camera to miss them. A second later, she’s on the video board in my jacket, and the arena host’s voice comes through the speakers.

”Looks like number seven knows who he scored that one for.”

Sadie looks up, horrified. Her teammates laugh harder, leaving her no choice but to give the camera a shy little wave.

I’m still watching her when Walker’s glove hits mine.

”Come on, Romeo. We’ve got a minute to kill.”

Providence pulls its goaltender for an extra skater, and I turn back to the ice. They press hard through the final minute, sending the puck toward our net whenever they get an opening. We block what we can and keep pushing it out of our zone. I glance at the clock after one clear: twelve seconds.

Providence retrieves the puck and comes at us once more, but the horn sounds before they can set up another shot.

We’ve won, three to two.