Page 47 of Never Pucking Ending

Is he doing this? Of course he is. I can tell by his expression—the same stubborn one I see on the ice—that he’s not going to let this go until he gets what he wants. “Picturing you having babies with someone else is just…a lot. It’s strange. And it’s dumb that I think it’s strange.”

Something flickers on his face before his frown twitches and his lips waver into a…smile. He’s smiling? If I look hard enough, I can see a bit of cockiness in his eyes too. What the hell?

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he says softly, his thumb resting on my bottom lip and tweaking it. My heart picks up when the heat from his finger soaks into me, and I try not to swallow or react.

I take a deep breath. “And why don’t I have to worry about that?” I ask, his thumb not leaving my mouth as the words are verbalized.

He presses against it, all but holding it between his fingers to stop me from talking as he leans in to close the distance between us. I suck in a sharp breath before I can stop myself.

“Because,” he whispers so close his mouth almost touches mine, “there’s only one person I’d consider that kind of life with.”

That’s all he says before he presses his lips against the corner of my mouth and pulls away, effectively stopping my heart. I’m dead.

Here lies Belle Thayer. Devoted daughter, friend, and smut reader. I’ll have to make sure somebody I trust deletes my kindle library after I’m gone.

“I’ll let you get to work,” he says with a sly grin, backing toward the stairs like he knows good and well I won’t be able to concentrate after that.

I look down at Dobby when it’s just us. “I am in deep trouble.” Dobby meows and rubs his body against my shins. “Don’t worry, you’ll always be my first born.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jesse

I stare at the team doctor as he gives us the grim update on Richie Head’s knee. Which is fucked. Badly. It’s going to take a lot of rest and physical therapy for him to get back in the game, and that won’t be for the remainder of this season.

He’s out.

“I’m sorry,” Head says for the fifth time since Coach Hoffman pulled me in to let me know we’re losing our fastest defenseman.

I clasp his shoulder. His eyes are red rimmed even though he’s pretending like he’s fine. It’s obvious he’s not. I wouldn’t be either if I were in his position. “It’s not your fault. Nobody expects to blow out their ACL.”

If that asshole on the opposing team hadn’t tripped him, this could have been avoided. The fucker didn’t even get penalized right away. Not until he’d done it a second time, targeting Head like he had a personal vendetta. Something tells me there’s a story there, but I’m not about to push him on telling me because it doesn’t matter. The only thing we need to focus on is making sure he gets better and heals properly.

Head keeps staring down at his leg, like he doesn’t hear me. “I’m sorry, Cap. I’m so sor—”

“Hey,” I say, cutting him off. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do this to yourself. You’re going to do what the doctors tell you and get better. Then you’re going to come back and kick that shithead’s ass. Get me?”

He’s in shock, and I don’t think he gets me at all. The poor kid is pale as he nods. I hope they pumped him with pain meds because it looks like he needs them. We’ve all had our fair share of ACL problems, dislocations, concussions and a slew of other injuries. He’ll see the best of the best and be back on the ice before he knows it.

When they wheel him out of the stadium, I swipe a hand down my face. Coach Hoffman turns to me, looking as exhausted as I feel. We scraped by with a win tonight even with Head’s injury, but next game is up in the air.

“Fuck,” the Thor lookalike breathes, dropping his head back. His blond hair is getting long again. It’s starting to look like it did back when he played for New York’s team. His jaw is scruffy like he hasn’t had time to shave, and his eyes are tired like he hasn’t had time to sleep, and I’m not sure if it’s because of this situation or the newborn baby he has at home.

I nod once. “Fuck,” I repeat in agreement, staring at the double doors they wheeled Head out of. I’ll make sure to check on him tomorrow. He’ll be preoccupied tonight.

Turning to Hoffman, I ask, “Are you putting Raymond in next game?”

He mulls it over. “Most likely. His stats aren’t as good as Head’s are, but we can work with him on it.”

The poor guy who’s barely older than I am looks like he’s ready to fall asleep. But I know him because I know what being in the game is like. He’ll go home, but he won’t stop thinking about what happened. Between wanting updates on his players and thinking about new gameplays and starting lineups, he’ll probably spend another sleepless night in his head.

“You should go,” I tell him, knocking my shoulder against his. “I’m sure Honor could use the help with the girls.”

Usually, his wife and daughter—daughters, now that he became a girl dad of two a few months ago—are at the games wearing jerseys with his name on them. But since Honor gave birth, she’s stayed home with his firstborn Gemma helping her out. I know he wishes they were here, or that he could be with them. It’s clear that they understand his priorities shift during the season. Honor’s father is the coach for Hoffman’s old team, so she’s been immersed in this lifestyle for a long time. It probably helps their dynamic.

It makes me think about what Belle and I talked about. Kids. The future. I wasn’t lying to her. There’s only one person that comes close to me trusting enough to have that life with, and it’s her. And picturing her with a swollen belly knowing I did that… Fuck me. I may or may not have gotten off to the idea when I was in the shower.

Hoffman checks his watch and curses. “I didn’t realize it was getting late.”