Page 59 of Rookie Attraction

No way.

I shift nervously in place because I’m definitely imagining it.

Only, not on my end. When he licks his lips, I look away, placing my bag discreetly in front of me. My blood’s rushing south, and any moment now, everyone around me is gonna know it. My traitorous cock was dormant in college, but not anymore.

The timing, the teammate, it couldn’t be more wrong.

The next day, Anaheim Arena

Anaheim’s reputation for fighting dirty is one I experience firsthand—they play fast, rough, and downright mean. From the opening faceoff, it’s clear they don’t have a problem doing whatever it takes to win, and we’re a half-step behind them on every play. Their forecheck is relentless, pinning us down in our own zone, forcing rushed passes that never land where they should.

First period, I chase a puck into the corner, only to get slammed into the boards so hard that every bone in my body feels like it’s on fire. The ref’s arm stays down as I scramble to my feet. The Fury take possession of the puck, cycling it high, looking for a gap. Our defense collapses, and Anaheim buries the first goal only five minutes in. The local crowd erupts in a frenzy, a wall of noise that drowns out our bench.

We hit back, but every pass feels off.

Sel’s stick misses my feed, my shot sailing wide.

Anaheim’s forwards are relentless, shoving us off the puck, chirping every time we skate by. The sin bin is busier than ever—for us and for them—with the ref calling out roughing, slashing, interference, Christ, nearly every penalty in the playbook. We’re killing time more than we’re playing, and tempers run wild. I’m so frustrated, I’m tasting blood as much as sweat.

In the second period, we get a brief surge. Berg intercepts a pass and breaks out with Ranken on his wing. For a second, it feels like we’re back in LA, until one of the Fury’s defenseman hooks Berg’s stick and throws him off course. No penalty called on that. Nothing.

The shot goes wide, and the play turns the other way.

Anaheim have possession and they score, again.

And again.

I can’t believe what’s happening, but they’re dominating every fucking play and then some. Until it’s 3–0 for the Fury. Sorensen, so famous for keeping his cool under pressure, starts pacing in front of his net.

By the third period, our frustration boils over. We’re chasing the game, not playing it. I get called for tripping, which is total bullshit. As I sit in the sin bin, I watch the Fury ramp up on the power play, picking us apart.

Another fucking goal: 4–0.

Guilt and frustration overwhelm me to the point that I feel like I can’t breathe. Not until my penalty is done and I’m back on the ice. We finally get a break when Ranken buries a beauty of a rebound. Our bench comes alive for a heartbeat, but it’s too little, too late. We barely get a chance to relish the goal before the Fury’s captain, on a breakaway, scores another one.

Makela taps one in, a final goal for the Rush late in the period, but it’s a dent in the scoreline. The final buzzer sounds off and the screen flashes 5–2.

What a brutal loss.

It stings worse than the bruises that litter my body.

The Fury celebrate together at center ice, and we skate off with our heads down. In the tunnel, the silence weighs heavy. No one meets anyone else’s gaze, and when I glance at Sel, I notice that his jaw’s set, his expression shuttered. He refuses to look me in the eye. The chemistry and support that’s usually effortless between us is jammed up. For some reason, I feel like I’ve lost something bigger than the game.

In the locker room, no one says a damn thing. Except Brady, who shoots his mouth off about “distracting players,” and glares at Sel.

“Don’t start, Brady,” Berg snaps and points to the defenseman. “Everyone fucked up today. Including you.”

The next week

The team’s tense mood carries over to the next game when we fly to Seattle. No one’s joking around or even talking much. Things between me and Sel are off too, but in an awkward way. We text each other, checking in as colleagues do, but keep our distance otherwise, whether it’s at a team meal or like now, sitting rows apart. I hate it because I want to sit beside Sel and break this tension, make him laugh.

Instead, I close my eyes and let my dreams take over. That doesn’t help, because he’s there too. Since my emotions are involved and my dick’s now on board, I have no hesitation picturing us together. Filthy fantasies that I never imagined before are all I can think about. I’m not freaking out, but I am scared. Part of me wants to say screw it and tell Sel how I feel. But again, why burden him with that? Chances are, this whole thing is on me. It’s a one-sided attraction that will go nowhere. And I’m better off just keeping my big mouth shut. Nothing good can come of my confession.

Nothing.

By the time the plane lands in Seattle, it’s dark outside and rain lashes the windows. We’re all zombies by the time we arrive at the hotel, shuffling through check-in. When I get to my room, I order room service, eat, shower, and crash out cold.

The next morning, Range has us hitting Seattle’s rink for a skate. It’s a lighter session than our usual practice, and Laflore and the other assistants spend a lot of time trying to get us into a better headspace. We’re determined to prove that Anaheim was a fluke. Still, it’s not easy trying to shake off such a vicious loss, and the media, who championed us one day, are now asking if our downfall is trending.