Page 31 of Ice Me Out

“Our next game is in Toronto against the Stars. This will be our first overnight stay of the season. It is too late to submit requests for tickets or hotel accommodation for guests. If I hear from Larry that any of you bothered him with last-minute accommodation requests, then you’ll be warming the bench for the next five games. Larry is the best operations manager we’ve had in years, and causing him undue stress will not be tolerated. Respect the deadlines.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I slipped it out and read the message discreetly. I smirked when Vera sent me a picture of a pepperoni pizza bagel and a thumbs-up.

Me: It’s not as good as my breakfast sandwich.

Vera: I won’t argue with you.

Me: You home?

Vera: I am. After I finish eating, I’m gonna shower and pass out. Do you plan on signing the contract?

I worried my bottom lip with my teeth because I was still unsure if I would sign.

Me: I need some more time to think.

The chat bubbles jumped on my screen, and my stomach twisted in knots as I waited for her response.

Vera: I don’t appreciate my time being wasted, and I especially don’t appreciate being used or led on.

Me: That’s not what’s going on, Vera.

Vera: Sweet Hart, you have 24 hours to decide, or I’m moving on.

Fuck my life.

An ominous feeling, like I was being watched, forced me to look up. Coach was staring dead at me.

Well, I’m fucked, and so are my teammates.

***

“I can barely feel my fucking legs,” I complained as I trudged into the locker room.

“And whose fucking fault is that?” Chandler groused, limping in behind me.

“Texting during review wasn’t the smartest move,” Rossi co-signed.

“You owe me a beer,” Banks said.

“Correction, several beers,” Morgan chimed in, easing onto a bench.

I ignored my teammates’ complaints and stripped off my jersey and gear. I wasn’t the first to break the rules and make everyone suffer Coach’s wrath, and I wouldn’t be the last.

“Oh, shit. Did Freddy Krueger visit you in your sleep?” West gasped. I swatted his hand away when he touched a scratch on my back.

“More like a bear,” Boris laughed.

“You’re the bear,” Christiansen said with a snort as he passed by with a towel around his waist. While Christiansen’s use of the term ‘bear’ was a double entendre, he wasn’t lying. Boris Solkov, a recruit from Russia, was bulky like a bear. I’d been hit by him a few times before and had the wind knocked out of me every single time. I no longer had to wonder why he was called Boris “The Butcher” Solkov.

“The sandwich is starting to make sense now,” Marlon remarked, sidling beside me. “Who is she?”

I shot him a pointed look—a silent warning to shut the fuck up because I didn’t want everyone in my shit. I rolled my eyes when he scooted closer and repeated his question in a lower tone. “Sugar Rush,” I whispered. I grabbed my shower caddy and left for the showers. He gasped and followed behind me.

“I can’t believe you did it. Can I meet her? What is she like?”

I discarded my towel on a hook and entered the communal shower, setting the caddy on a shelf.

“You cannot meet her because I’m unsure if I will sign the contract.”