Page 1 of Cheap Shot

CHAPTER ONE

January

“Hey, Crawford! You smell better with your equipmenton!”

Luke Crawford stared out through the door of the penalty box, refusing to turn and look at Vintage Jersey Guy.

Since Luke didn’t know the guy’s name and he wore a vintage New York Rockets jersey every game, that was what he’d been calling him in his head.

Foryearsnow.

Luke thought it was years anyway. It fucking felt likedecadesat this point.

It had been bad enough when Luke only had to deal with the guy a couple of times a year in New York when the Harriers visited or the Rockets played in Boston.

But no. Now this fucking guy had apparently moved to Boston or whatever and was now at every single home game the Harriers played at the Hawk’s Nest. And he’d made it his entire fucking personality to be adickto Luke.

“Hey, asshole,” Crawford called back. “Maybe you should get a social life instead of spending your time coming up with fresh chirps for every game.”

Crawford delivered the line staring straight ahead, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see the guy throw his head back and laugh.

The penalty was up and Luke nodded at the attendant holding the door open and skated out, hovering in the neutral zone as he scanned the ice.

There were four minutes left in the first period, and the Harriers were up 2–0 against the Portland Comets.

The puck was currently trapped in the corner in Portland’s zone as Connor O’Shea and Graham Pennington battled to get it out.

Anker Henriksen waited down in the slot, intently focused on the puck battle, ready to shoot it in the net the moment his linemates got it free.

Luke’s D-partner, Tanner Clayton, roamed as he always did, constantly on the move.

And just like they’d planned it, Connor rammed his shoulder against one of Portland’s players and broke his concentration, Graham darted a stick out and swiped the puck away, immediately firing it to Luke. Luke passed it to Anker, who shot it in. Portland’s goalie blocked it and by the time it rebounded, Tanner was there to poke it in.

The lamp lit up, and they were up 3–0.

They all collided in a celly, and Tanner skated to the bench, grinning, for his fist bumps.

Luke rolled his eyes as Tanner chattered nonstop for the rest of the period, then down the tunnel to the locker room. In the dressing room, he kept going, yammering on and on about absolutely nothing.

Luke usually tuned him out, because Tanner didn’t seem to care if he did anything but grunt occasionally in response.

But tonight, Tanner apparently expected him to say something, because he looked up as Luke stripped off his jersey.

Luke never wore a base layer on top—he got way too fucking hot and sweaty with them on—and he mopped at his skin with a towel.

“Hey! Crawford!” Tanner kicked him in the side of the calf. Thankfully, he’d taken his skates off.

“What?” Luke groused.

“Isaid, I liked the way the play went down for that last goal. The setup worked just as well as it did in practice.”

“Well, yeah,” Luke said, tossing the towel at the rolling laundry cart nearby. “You got the goal. Why wouldn’t you like it?”

“I know. But, like, it just looked really fucking cool. I bet there’ll be a ton of sweet clips of it online.”

“So you can jerk off about it like always?” Crawford asked, reaching for the bottle of sports drink in his stall.

“No.” Tanner grinned up at him.