Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(59)

Tinker Bell: Worth it though.





Tinker Bell: Kissing is overrated. Except with you, I mean.





He reads my message immediately, eliminating any chance I have of unsending it. Did I really just write that? What am I doing? Granted, it’s true. A lot of other guys try to eat your face, and it’s not a good time. Or there’s an aggressive amount of tongue.

With Tyler, it’s another story. Maybe because it feels like he’s kissing me instead of kissing me. It’s a subtle, but important, distinction. In the former scenario, it’s an unspoken form of communication; an act of giving and taking. He knows when to deepen the kiss and when to pull back. It always feels like he’s fully in the moment, responding to me as things unfold.

In the latter instance, it’s someone jamming their tongue down your throat.

I’m still not sure I should’ve told him that. Every so often, I let something TMI like this slip around him. Now I’m staring at our text thread trying not to cringe.

Tinker Bell: Now I’m the one who sounds weird, but I stand by what I said.





Hades: Glad to be the lone exception on that. I’m with you. As a concept, overrated. With you, I’d gladly do it all day.





Hades: I’d kiss you right now if I could. We can make up for lost time when I’m back.





I think my heart just exploded.





CHAPTER 21





PUCK DROP





TYLER





The only thing more stressful than games are the moments directly leading up to them.

Around the dressing room, my teammates joke and laugh while I sit off to the side, tuning them out. Everyone knows the deal by now. Once we get to the arena, no one talks to me until we’re on the ice.

Closing my eyes, I visualize the entire game from puck drop to the buzzer. All the plays and each possible scenario that could result. Passes, takeaways, giveaways. Every shot and how I’ll make that save. I picture every single detail: the weight of my gear, the ice beneath my skates, the bright LED lights shining down, and the roar of the crowd after each blocked shot.

Did Seraphina text me back yet?

Fuck, Tyler. Get your shit together.

“How do you feel about facing your old team?” Dallas asks, clearly talking to Reid.

Since I’ve already been derailed, I allow myself to sneak a peek to see his reaction.

“Not fucking great,” he grumbles, dragging the toe of his skate along the gray-speckled rubber flooring. “I’m worried about Grady. He knows my moves, and their D will be all over me.”

Steve Grady—Head Coach of the Woodbine Rams—was a hockey legend in the making until an injury forced him into early retirement at twenty-six, and he became one of the youngest coaches at the college level. He also used to be Reid’s mentor, and my working theory is that Grady has something to do with why he left.

“If they are, that’ll leave me and Ward wide open. Either way, we’ll fuck them up nicely; don’t worry.” Chase tips back his head, squirting his water bottle into his mouth.

“I’m sure we will, but I like scoring too,” Reid says dryly.

“That’s what she said!” one of the guys yells. Raucous laughter breaks out, and the room gets ten times rowdier, filled with whoops and hollers, dirty jokes and excessively detailed blowjob stories.

Irritation seizes me when I realize I’m more off track than ever, and I clamp down on the urge to tell them all to shut the fuck up. Not only would they not listen, breaking my no-talking rule would set a bad precedent.

On a normal day, I wouldn’t be able to hear any of this. I’d be completely in the zone and utterly oblivious to the circus around me. Right now, I can’t concentrate for shit. All I can think about is the texts Seraphina and I exchanged back and forth all day. The first thing I’m going to do when I get off the ice is check my phone for the next.

I look down at the floor and try to focus on counting my breaths, but it doesn’t work. I’ll be standing in front of the net in a matter of minutes, and for the first time in my life, I’m rattled over something that has nothing to do with hockey.





Halfway into the second, we’re tied. If I needed something to force my head into the game, I got it. Woodbine’s offense has been fucking hammering me for twenty-nine minutes. After facing over forty shots on net, I’ve only let in two goals. Both were bad bounces, one of which was completely out of my control. Puck luck hasn’t been on our side tonight and rebounds are our defense’s weakness.

A shot bounces off the crossbar with a clink, sliding into the crease. Reflexes kicking in, I throw myself to the ice and cover it with my glove to stop the play. Or at least, the play should stop—but the officials have swallowed their goddamn whistles.

Woodbine’s forward, Burgess, wedges his stick beneath my glove, digging to knock the puck loose. It’s times like this I wish goalies could fight according to hockey code because right now, I want to get up and pummel this dick. Everyone knows you don’t mess with the goaltender after a save. Not only is it cheap as hell, it’s pointless. Any resulting goal will immediately get called back.