Hot Jocks Box Set

Faceoff-5

The first thing Christian does when he’s released from the penalty box is skate to where his coach stands on the sidelines, watching the game. He skids to a stop by the boards, breathless, his gaze watching the puck zoom across the ice. “Hey,” he says, “put me in. I can sink that shot.”

But when he turns to skate into play, the coach grabs the back of his jersey and holds him in place. “Easy there, Magic. Your shift just switched. Sit down and wait your turn.”

“I got this one,” Christian says, trying to shake free from the coach’s grip. Ronnie’s out on the ice, and he wants nothing more than to face off against that man. He tells himself it’s because they’re on opposing teams, but something in those eyes, that wink, has him bothered. Ramming the man into the boards a time or two might be just what Christian needs to get that out of his system.

But the coach is a no-go. He hauls Christian back into the player box, off the ice and out of play. “Ass on the bench,” he growls, steering Christian toward the end of the line with the rest of his shift. “This ain’t a personal vendetta, kid. Sit down and wait your turn or I’ll throw you from the game.”

With a scowl, Christian falls onto the bench, arms crossed awkwardly before him. He finds Ronnie on the ice without difficulty and glares out at his former teammate. Suddenly it’s hot in here, too hot, so he yanks off his helmet and throws it to his feet.

“Magic,” the coach warns. “Save it for the game.”

A mess of sweaty blond waves curl down into Christian’s face. Roughly he brushes them back, out of his vision, then fists his hand in their thick depths and pulls hard in frustration. He knew going into this game would be difficult, but he’d had no clue just what he’d be up against.

With both hands now, he cradles his forehead, the span between his palms dark and comforting. When he left Richmond, he thought he’d left everything behind, Ronnie included. Three months later, he’s surprised the guy can still tear him up inside.

Fuck it. Play the game. Go home. Get over it already, can you do that? Get over him. He’s just psyching you out and you know it.

But is he? Is he really? Because Christian saw something in that cool gaze when they stared at each other through the glass surrounding the penalty box, something that makes him think Ronnie might not hate him completely, the way the other Rebels seem to. Something that hints at so much left unsaid, and so much more between them.

Christian pushes his hair back and sets his chin on his hand to watch the game. The moment he looks up, Ronnie is passing in front of him, the puck fast against his stick, angling for the goal. Sticking out his lower lip, Christian blows the curls off his forehead. Ronnie glances over, sees him, and misses his shot.

The puck goes clear around the back of the goal and comes out the other side. Several of Christian’s teammates scramble for it, but the ref’s whistle stops them short. Above the hockey rink, the announcer’s voice rains down like judgment. “Niedermeyer’s called for icing. Would have been a great shot, too, if only he’d have kept his eyes on the puck. There is some tension in the air tonight, folks! Are you ready to r-r-r-r-r-r-r-rumble?”

Tension. Christian smirks as Ronnie skates for the penalty box. The air’s so thick around him, he thinks he’ll suffocate before the night is through.