Puck Performance: BTU Alumni Series Book #4

by Ciz, Alley

  “Oh my god. I can’t believe that bitch was almost responsible for me missing out on the best relationship I’ve ever had.”

  I blow out a breath, trying to get my emotions in check.

  “It killed me not to tell you about dating Jase. I felt so guilty there were times it made me sick. I’d talk to you and keep this whole new part of my life from you, and I’d be with him hearing things about you and not be able to defend you. It sucked.”

  “Care—”

  “And all because of a bitch who was the literal manifestation of a puck bunny.”

  “What?”

  “Oh Teddy.” I place a hand on his knee. “I love you, but the only thing Dana saw in you was potential dollar signs. Yes, you were projected to go high in the draft, but so was Jase.” I hold up a finger, already knowing what he’s gonna ask. “All you had was yourself in earning potential, but Jase was considered pedigreed. His older brother was the current Rookie of the Year in the NHL. Even though they weren’t engaged at the time, everyone knew he was about to have a brother-in-law in the league too, not to mention all his former teammates and the fact that their family is connected to Rick Schelios. Dana probably saw Jase as a way to get more.”

  Then I remember something else—something important.

  “Did you see them actually hooking up?”

  “No.”

  “So why did you assume they did?”

  “Dana had her hands on his chest and he winked when I confronted them.”

  Fucking Jase. Men really are morons.

  “Yeah…nothing happened between Jase and Dana.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Jase had a girlfriend back then, one he happens to be best friends with now. There’s no way they would still be close if he cheated. I’m pretty sure he just wanted you to think they hooked up to fuck with you.”

  “Well shit.” Nate collapses back against his chair. “Well fucking played, Donnelly.”

  I put a hand over my mouth to smother a laugh. If these two idiots could stop acting like teenage girls, I think they would actually get along.

  Nate stays silent while he processes everything. Both of us were wrong, him with his ultimatum, me for lying about my relationship with Jase. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even. We’ll only have an issue if he tries playing dictator again. For now, I have places to be.

  “Good talk.” I double-tap his knee and rise from my seat. “Glad we cleared this up.”

  He rises with me, a befuddled expression on his face. “Where are you going?”

  I walk to the door before I answer. “You have a nap to take, and I have a song to practice.”

  His brows scrunch in confusion. “I thought you said you took the day off.”

  “I did, and you’ll see.” I tap my temple. “Just remember to keep this conversation in mind. Love you, Teddy.”

  I hear, “Love you too, Care Bear,” before the door shuts behind me.

  That’s one hockey player taken care of. Time for number two.

  Chapter Sixty

  The locker room is buzzing as we dress for the start of Game 7 of the Conference Finals. This is the second time we’ve gone all seven games—the first being our previous series against the Blizzards in the second round—and yes, our bodies are tired, but if we win this game, we’re only four wins away from hoisting the Cup over our heads. It’s so close I can practically taste the silver and nickel alloy.

  I’m not saying the locker room is ever the most glamorous place to be—no matter how luxurious the facility—but at the end of May and into June, things take a turn. The extra bruises and all the facial hair from playoff beards isn’t a good look on anybody. Well, except me. I pull off the scruffy look as well as any Avenger.

  That being said, I can’t wait to shave this shit off. It’s itchy as hell.

  Yoshi!

  Yoshi!

  Yoshi!

  “Dude.” Cali throws his hands in the air.

  I flip him the bird, not giving a shit. I’m surprised he even heard my phone over the sound of Birds of Prey.

  I thumb open my texts, wondering briefly if it’s another one from Mels. I’ve been doing my best to distance myself from her, but like I told her, I promised I wouldn’t walk away again. I may not be able to be with her, but texting has been our thing since long before we became a couple.

  I miss her like crazy, though. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve squeezed in seeing her show another half a dozen times in the month since opening night. It only gets better each time.

  I’m supposed to be keeping my distance, a feat made harder the last ten days since our series against her brother’s team started. Creeping from the audience to see her may not technically be keeping my distance, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

  Have I been taking advantage of working out my frustrations with Nate when we play? Maybe. To be fair, whenever we’ve played the Bruisers in the past, I’ve ended up in the sin bin at least once. So what if that number has tripled for the last six games?

  Looking down, I see I do have a message from her.

  BROADWAY BABY: *picture of Mr. Potato Head with a Funko Pop! doll of Jase and one of Nate*

  BROADWAY BABY: Why can’t I get you two to get along IRL like you do as dolls?

  I laugh. My baby is something else.

  Shit. Not your baby anymore, Donnelly.

  THE BIG HAMMER: *shrugging emoji*

  Thumbing back, I go through the other texts that came through.

  ALPHABET SOUP: Only because the Blizzards are out.

  ALPHABET SOUP: *picture of Rocky wearing a Jase Donnelly Storm jersey*

  THE FEROCIOUS TEDDY BEAR: Do you see these posers?

  THE FEROCIOUS TEDDY BEAR: *picture of all the Covenettes wearing Jase Donnelly Storm jerseys*

  MOTHER OF DRAGONS: If anyone asks, I’m telling them this was for Halloween.

  MOTHER OF DRAGONS: *picture of Lucy, Lacey, and baby Logan in mini Jase Donnelly Storm jerseys*

  DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: You need me to come back there and show you some moves so you can really lay Bishop out?

  I have to be on the ice for warm-ups in less than five minutes. I make quick work of responding so I can finish dressing.

  To Rocky:

  THE BIG HAMMER: Surrrrre. Wait until AFTER we break up and you marry someone else to FINALLY wear the CORRECT jersey.

  ALPHABET SOUP: To be fair…you didn’t ACTUALLY play for the Storm when we dated *shrugging emoji*

  Such a smartass.

  To Griff:

  THE BIG HAMMER: Yeah…they are totally closet Storm fans.

  THE FEROCIOUS TEDDY BEAR: True story lol.

  To JD:

  THE BIG HAMMER: FINALLY! You’re raising them right. But it loses a little something with the Yeti headphones.

  MOTHER OF DRAGONS: Yeah, I’m not buying a new set of noise-canceling headphones. Sorry not sorry.

  To Vince:

  THE BIG HAMMER: Please. I taught you everything you know.

  DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: In your dreams, puck head.

  Tossing my phone in my locker, I slip one of JD’s hair ties on my wrist and finish suiting up.

  The sound of the opening ceremony and accompanying hype video echo in the tunnel as we wait to step onto the ice.

  We charge out as a team, and I complete my full skate of the rink then look toward the suite level, finding my crazy-ass family waving down at me.

  Across the ice, I spot Bishop, but the death glare I’m used to seeing isn’t there. Huh? He looks almost…cordial.

  Our starting line is announced as we finish warm-ups, lining up on the blue line opposite Boston’s starters while the rest of our teams filter in and make their way to the benches.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please rise and remove your caps to join our special guest tonight, Broadway’s own Melody Brightly, to sing the national anthem.”

  Pinching my glove between my elbow and side, I remove it to knuckle my ear. With the flash
ing lights, booming music, and roaring crowd, my ears must be playing tricks on me. There’s no way I heard what I think I just heard. Right?

  It’s Wednesday. Mels has two shows on Wednesdays. She should have just taken the stage for her second performance of the day, not be here about to walk out on the silver carpet laid on the ice.

  So why am I trying to see past the Bruisers for a familiar flash of pink?

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The butterflies I experienced on opening night have nothing on the fire-breathing dragons currently taking up residence in my gut.

  Though muted by the concrete surrounding me, the music and voiceover from the hype video the Storm plays before their playoff games thunders through my ears.

  Just a few more minutes.

  Breathe in through the nose. Exhale out the mouth.

  Over and over I repeat the deep breathing exercises, quelling the urge to toss my cookies.

  I feel like a complete rookie I’m such a basket case.

  The national anthem is arguably the hardest song to sing live, and I’m about to do it in front of almost eighteen thousand in the arena and about another eight million watching from home.

  Sure, it makes sense to be nervous when you consider all that, but none of that is what has me as skittish as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  I ball my hands inside the long sleeves of my Jase Donnelly jersey, bunching the fabric inside them.

  What if he’s mad?

  What if he doesn’t understand what I mean by this?

  What if he still refuses to be with me?

  All these thoughts play on repeat in my mind until a touch on my elbow breaks me from my trance.

  Turning my head, I see the representative from the Storm looking at me expectantly. “You ready?”

  When I concocted this brilliant—albeit drunken—scheme to get my man back, the first person I contacted to help was Jordan. Of all the stories I heard from Jase about how The Coven gets shit done, including tracking down Holly when no one else could, I knew who to call—and it wasn’t the Ghostbusters. Gotta love the irony of enlisting their help to get him to come to his senses.

  Now, though? I could really go for the bottle of wine that got me into this mess.

  You can do this, Mels.

  You perform for people eight times a week.

  You’re nominated for a freaking Tony.

  I keep my gaze trained straight ahead, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that the Boston starting line—AKA my brother’s line—is the one closest to me and not the Storm. I’ll say good because I’m not sure I’d be able to go through with this seeing Jase’s reaction.

  It’s different when I’m on stage. The lights are so bright, and the audience is one big shadow. Here? Not so much.

  First things first: not forgetting the words and ending up in the top ten of national anthem flops next to Christina Aguilera at the Super Bowl.

  “O’er the land of the freeeee,” I sing, crushing the high note like every true Broadway performer is trained to do. The deafening sound of cheering as I continue to hold the note makes it impossible to even hear myself.

  One more lungful of air for the final line, my eyes falling shut of their own accord. “And the hooooome of the braaaaaaaaave.”

  Opening my eyes, I see the massive American flag making its way around the arena over the heads of the screaming and whistling fans, popping against the backdrop of thousands of circling gray towels.

  Hockey has always been my favorite sport to watch live, and playoffs and the subsequent Stanley Cup carry an electricity with them you can’t find anywhere else.

  I finally chance looking at the players on the ice. Nate is wiping underneath his eye, but all thoughts of bringing my brother to tears with my performance fall to the wayside as a blur of black and gray rounds the line of Boston players.

  Snow sprays over my boots as Jase breaks at the edge of the carpet unfurled on the ice.

  It takes me a moment to work up the nerve to lift my gaze from his skates, but I remind myself like Maria when she leaves the convent in The Sound of Music: I have confidence in me. Because if I learned anything from the cast of Hairspray, it’s that life is surely lacking without love.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Cali’s gloved hand hooks around my elbow the moment Melody steps out to sing the national anthem, keeping me in place.

  What is she doing here?

  I shift on my skates to get a better look, but I can’t see much thanks to her short stature and the towering men in skates in front of me.

  I must have fallen and hit my head on the ice because surely I’m hallucinating. How can she be here when she’s supposed to be on stage thirteen blocks uptown?

  The melodic sound of her voice filling the arena is all the confirmation I need that it really is her—I would know her voice anywhere.

  It doesn’t matter that the people filling the seats are rowdy hockey fans, most I’m sure already well on their way to being drunk; she has them as enthralled as the sold-out audiences who see her do her thing on stage.

  It’s the longest two and a half minutes of my life, and I curse every pause the overwhelming applause causes.

  Shrugging Cali off the second Melody finishes the last note, I don’t give a fuck that I’m about to delay the start of the game. I need answers, and there’s a better chance of the Storm forfeiting the game than me waiting until it’s over to get them.

  Stopping in front of her with a spray of snow from my skates, I eat her up with my gaze. I need her eyes on mine immediately.

  Committing a cardinal sin, I toss my stick to the ice, barely registering the clatter, and shuck my gloves off after it.

  On instinct, I reach for my baby, and the screech of feedback from the mic hitting the ice when she drops it fills the area. I ignore it, cupping the back of her neck in both my hands and tilting her face to mine with a press of my thumbs under her jaw. Worried eyes blink at me, and she visibly swallows.

  I tried to stay away, to keep my distance, not wanting to be a wedge between her and the assface behind me. There’s the thought that Nate might try to put a stop to our reunion, but it’s so fleeting it might as well have not existed.

  Not a word is said as we stare at each other, my gaze eating up every detail about her like a starved man at a buffet. That’s exactly what I am—starved. The closest I’ve come to seeing her in over a month has been twenty rows away, and all those times she was Marilyn, not my Mels, my Sweet Potato.

  Now she’s all long pink waves instead of platinum blonde, that freckle under her left eye I love to kiss isn’t covered by stage makeup, and there’s no drawn-on beauty mark to the left of her delectable mouth, which is painted with pale pink gloss instead of fire engine red.

  As if I don’t think she’s breathtaking enough, when I get a glimpse of what’s happening below the neck, I almost wipe out on the ice like a rookie. She’s rocking a Storm jersey, and not just any Storm jersey either.

  Mine. My girl is wearing my jersey, in front of me, the sold-out crowd of over eighteen thousand, millions more at home, and—most importantly—her brother.

  This is her claiming me as hers, and I’m done not doing the same.

  My hold on her tightens, her hair tangling in my fingers as she’s forced to take a couple of steps forward, closer to me.

  “So you do know how to follow the rules.” I nod at the jersey.

  Her lips tip up at the corners. “Well…I wasn’t given a dress code to follow or anything.” My own lips lift, remembering how she tossed the same sentiment out the night we met. “But I didn’t think my usual black and gold would help me get what I want.”

  “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

  “You,” she says with zero hesitation, and damn if that isn’t my new favorite pronoun.

  “Mels—”

  “No.” She shakes her head, cutting off any other objections. “You made your grand gesture, which you more
than succeeded in. Now it’s my turn.”

  I nod. Who am I to stop her?

  “You love me.” Her hands come up, clutching the collar of my jersey, pulling me until the edges of my skates glide onto the carpet. “And despite you acting like a gigantic idiot more than once…” She levels me with a look that dares me to argue. I don’t take the bait. Yes, I may be an idiot, but even I have enough sense of self-preservation to not be that stupid. “I love you.”

  Pressing onto her tiptoes, she shifts to look around me at Nate. “He may be my brother, and yes I love him too, but I refuse to give you up. If he doesn’t like it, that’s his problem.”

  She moves back, using her grip on my jersey to tug me down until we are nose to nose. Our size difference has always made this position awkward AF and my skates aren’t doing us any favors, but none of that matters when having her close makes everything right.

  “Will you kiss me and call me yours already? You have a hockey game to play, after all.”

  Cheeky woman.

  Instead of slamming my mouth on hers like every caveman instinct inside screams at me to do, I maintain my hold on her, keeping her in place with my thumbs underneath her jaw, and mold my lips to hers.

  It’s slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that, if this were a movie, would make viewers be like, “Now that’s a kiss.”

  Her tongue is the first to press against the seam of my lips. As soon as I grant her access, she wraps it around the barbell piercing my tongue.

  On and on we kiss, little moans of pleasure escaping her throat as we do. If it weren’t for the cup protecting my junk, every person inside the Garden would see just how badly I want my girl.