Page 31 of Tough Call

Shortly after we sat down, things got moving. The officials skated out and sped around the rink before stopping to check the nets on the goals. All male, which was interesting, though we’d had three female officials and one male linesman, so maybe the Games had mixed things up a bit.

Either way, in this game, there were two linesmen, and the refs were a blond man and⁠—

There. Oh, yes. There was Connor.

My heart slammed into my ribs beneath my carmine red jacket. Inside my gloves, my fingers itched with the need to be on that long, lean body.

Refs didn’t wear a ton of gear—not as much as we did—but they did have padding, which made Connor look slightly bulkier than he actually was. I got a strange thrill out of that—out of knowing the real shape of him beneath his black pants and striped jersey. My fingertips tingled at the memory of tracing over every inch of his body in his bed the other night.

I want you again, I thought as I watched him glide around the ice. Jesus, Connor. I want you so bad.

I did, and I was so distracted by him, I barely even followed the action of the game. Sometimes the play would pull my focus, like when Estonia got a breakaway and surged toward our end. I was shouting alongside everyone else, cheering on the puck carrier as she closed in on the net, and then⁠—

A whistle blew. There were shouts and boos all around us. The lineswoman’s arm went up, and everyone groaned. Offside. Fuck. The players argued animatedly with the officials, including Connor, but they were met with headshakes and gestures I recognized as “either set up for the faceoff or go to your bench unless you want a penalty.”

The players wisely didn’t push the issue, but they weren’t happy. Whether at themselves or the officials, it was hard to say. Offside happened, and every player—especially at this level—had long ago learned to brush it off and move on. Still, there were moments when it could be that little bit of aggravation that another team took advantage of. When the offside call derailed a scoring chance? That could definitely be one of those times, and I could tell Estonia was pissed.

Hopefully they could keep their heads together, reclaim that scoring chance, and see it through. Unlike, say, the opposing team we’d played the other night. Team USA had had a three-on-one breakaway that could’ve been disastrous had it not been offside. During the subsequent faceoff, their center had been flustered just enough to blow it, and we’d ended up with possession and—seconds later—a goal.

As Estonia set up for the faceoff, they looked focused and cool. They were probably smart enough to not let their opponents capitalize.

They were, too. In no time, they were back in the offensive zone and the puck was in the back of Czechia’s net.

I was on my feet and cheering with the other fans, but truth be told… I couldn’t have explained how the play went down to save my life. One second, I was watching the faceoff. The next, we were all celebrating a goal. In between?

Well, in between, my gaze had landed on Connor, and everything else had ceased to exist. I’d always loved watching him in his element, even back when he’d still been officiating youth games. There was just something mesmerizing about him when he was this focused.

He just…

He had no business looking that good. No one had any business looking that good in referee stripes. But goddamn, there he was.

I saw attractive men skating every damn day of my life. Why was it so hypnotic to watch Connor do the same exact thing?

And how did I ever let myself lose touch with you?

That thought didn’t have time to get off the ground, because Estonia had scored and I was jolted out of my distraction. I cheered and clapped, and I tried to tell myself my heart was pounding with excitement and adrenaline over the game… not because I was a complete idiot about one of the men in black and white.

As the crowd started to settle, my teammate Petrovs cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted in what I was pretty sure was Estonian. Whether or not his sister-in-law heard him, I had no idea, but several fans wearing blue, black, and white Estonia jerseys cheered.

I just chuckled as we all sat back down.

And then my gaze drifted to Connor. Again.

And I forgot all about the hockey happening around him.

Again.

Something happened—I had no idea what—and a whistle stopped play again. I furrowed my brow, trying to figure out what was going on until Connor emphatically grabbed his forearm, then gestured at the penalty box. Ah—someone was getting called for holding.

She didn’t argue. She just rolled her eyes and shook her head as she skated toward the box. Connor glided up to the line and halted, back straight and shoulders back, and he switched on his microphone.

“Estonia. Number sixty-two.” He grabbed his forearm again. “Two-minute minor for holding.”

Estonia’s fans booed. Czechia’s fans roared.

And my stupid heart…

God, I was just locked in on that smoking hot ref. Estonia’s captain had some words for him, as did the player in the box, but he stayed stoic and calm. His expression was neutral and firm—he held his position without being a dick about it.