by Stacey Lynn
Scoring Off The Ice
Ice Kings, #2
Stacey Lynn
Scoring Off The Ice
Ice Kings, #2
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Stacey Lynn
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Copyright © 2020 Stacey Lynn
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Content Editing: My Brother’s Editor
Proofreading: Virginia Tesi Carey
Cover Design: Shanoff Designs
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Scoring Off The Ice is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, trademarks, and incidents are used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination.
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All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reprinted, reproduced, or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review passages only.
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This purchased material is for personal use only and NOT to be shared. Thank you so much for respecting the author’s wishes.
Created with Vellum
To Lauren
May there be many more
girls trips and dance nights
in our future.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Other Books by Stacey Lynn
Chapter One
Mikah
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“Lutzgo.”
I pause midway of tugging down my Ice Kings T-shirt and meet Coach Woods’s gaze. He’s over twice my age, shorter, rounder. His gray hair is always side-swept and he looks like a kind man.
His kind, happy-go-lucky looks fooled me when I met him. After several conversations and meetings, I thought I’d met the man I always wished my own dad could be. Then I stepped on the ice with him. He yelled so much I was certain my butt was on the first plane back to Denmark. I’ve learned since it’s just his way. He fools us with his kindness, grows us with his fierce need to make us be our best, and in return, he earns our loyalty.
“Yes, Coach?”
“You work out this season?”
“Often.”
“Good. Good.” He slaps my shoulder as he passes me. “You’re good. Fast. This will be your best season yet. Promise you that if you keep up the hard work.”
A wash of relief warms me to my core.
He’s not a man to give compliments easily but I felt the way I skated today. I was one with the ice. Fast. Quick releases on the puck on the pass. Fast catches on the bad ones sent my way. It was grueling.
I live for it. Always have since the first time I slid onto the ice. Literally. My dad put me on skates and plopped me on the ice. I did the splits and landed on my ass. Thirty minutes later, I was speeding around the small rink in our smaller town almost right in the middle of Denmark’s central region. It came to me naturally, but I still worked my ass off to make Denmark’s International hockey team in Europe. The Danish team isn’t the best team in Europe and only one or two a year get drafted to America’s National Hockey League.
It’s been my father’s goal for me since before I was born. It’s been mine since I was five.
Sweat still drips down my back as I bend down to grab my pants. T-shirts. Athletic pants. All embossed with the Ice Kings logo because the marketing and promo departments are constantly shoving new gear into our hands. I have dresser drawers full of shirts and pants and baskets filled with hats. I have enough boxer briefs to last for a year without once doing laundry if I want the Ice Kings logo slapped all over my ass and balls.
A jolt slaps my shoulder and my hands slip from my waistband.
“You coming out with us tonight?”
I turn to Sawyer Chauncy, one of our team’s first line defensemen. The guy who slapped my shoulder. His long brown hair hangs to his shoulders, soaking his shirt. “What? Where?”
“Out. Want a few drinks but in quiet. You in? Maddox is coming and Taylor might too.”
“Which one?”
Jude and Jason Taylor are brothers, four years apart in age. Both are our starting wingers and two of the best men I have the honor of knowing.
“Jason. Jude already took off. Said Katie has the weekend off work and doesn’t want to be away from her.”
Where Jude fell in love with his college girlfriend during last season when he was injured, for the three years I’ve been on the team, Jason’s had a parade of women rotating in and out of his life.
Which is more than I can say for me. I’ve had one woman. One incredible weekend.
One weekend where I put aside the focus I’ve had on hockey since I was a little kid and took an opportunity that literally, fell into my lap.
One weekend where I decided after being a virgin until the age of twenty-three, one-night stands are not my thing. Don’t get me wrong. I loved every second of learning how to work a woman’s body. Putting my fantasies to real-life experiences is something I’ll never forget.
But in the end? I want to learn what one woman likes. Learn her body so well I can get her off and make her come and scream my name with an easy touch, knowing exactly what she craves and how she wants it. I at least want to know it means something to the woman I’m with.
Which means, since the weekend I lost my virginity to a puck bunny who didn’t care at all when I gently kicked her out of my condo a couple days later, my weekend of fun over, I have not been with another woman.
Honestly, I want what Jude has with Katie.
What Chauncy has with his longtime girlfriend Debbie.
And what Byron Maddox, our goalie, has with his wife, Hannah.
“Yo, Lutzgo!” Speak of the devil. Maddox walks around the corner, fresh from the shower and wearing nothing.
Maddox wears clothes so infrequently it’s possible I’ve seen his dick more than I’ve seen my own. “You coming tonight? I’ll swing by and pick you up later. Around eight.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m in. Sounds good.”
I can drive myself, but if Maddox is offering that means he won’t drink. Something not a lot of guys do much of anyway during the season. But that means I can. And I have stress to kick to the curb.
The beginning of the season is always the worst. The stress of wondering who improved more than me over the off-season—hint, not many, but it can happen. Which new players will be called up from the farm leagues. Who will be sent down. Who will still be traded, or their dreams destroyed completely. The first few weeks of training camp and exhibition games which are only a few weeks away has everyone on edge.
Me more than most.
My VISA allows me to stay in the United States as long as I stay on a professional hockey team. And there is no way I ever want to return to Denmark.
The coach’s compliments feel good, but they’re not enough. His opinion of what the team needs is not the only one that matters.
“I’ll see y
ou at eight, then.”
“Where are we headed?”
“George’s. A night to chill.”
Some night the guys go to clubs. Loud music. Sore throats the next morning from having to scream to be heard. Fans. Puck bunnies. I do not want that tonight. He must see my shoulders slump with relief.
“Hey. You okay?”
Out of everyone on the team, I’m closest with Maddox. When I showed up, fresh off the plane from Denmark, I was only twenty years old and Maddox was already one of the best goalies in the league. He’s also the largest guy on our team, the meanest looking and his personality is not much nicer. The man is gruff. A boar in the most fragile of tea shops. The first six months on the team, I was certain he hated my guts. Over time, he started treating me like his younger brother, Seth.
“I am fine.” I grab my gear back and shut the oversized locker. “Busy. Sore from working out.”
Not all are lies.
“You look good out there. Gelled well with Hendrix. You have nothin’ to worry about, eh?”
“Thank you.” I slap his shoulder and start to head out. If he’s coming at eight to get me, I have enough time to get home, throw in an additional bodyweight-only workout, eat, and shower before he gets there.
“See you later.”
I’m looking forward to it. My teammates are my family. Not built by blood and expectations, but mutual respect.
Plus, George’s bar is great. He’s never let it leak that’s where we like to hang when we want to be with the team and their wives or girlfriends even though it could mean a huge jump in business for him. Which means we can relax, have a few drinks, talk about whatever we want and not have to worry about fans demanding our time and attention.
George gives us that. He’s either old and seen too much to care about a bunch of pro athletes, or maybe he’s a fan of the Raleigh Rough Riders and doesn’t care about hockey. We show him our appreciation in large tips and not being complete slobs.
Chapter Two
Paisley
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It has been a day. Actually it has been a week. That kind of bone-weary, exhaustion-settling sensation that occurs at the end of the first week back to work or school after an extended absence kind of week.
I barely have the energy to scan my key fob that gets me access to my private and well-secured loft building in the epicenter of Charlotte. Waving to the afternoon manager takes herculean effort but I manage the task and give Pierre a faux-happy hello on my way to the elevator banks.
Thank goodness for my uncle Trent, though. He elected to take a three-year position in the Philippines, creating new centers for the tech company where he’s based in Charlotte. His moving out of the country and not wanting to sell his fancy loft in his upscale building gave me the opportunity to housesit for him while I attend graduate school and do my student teaching at an inner-city school.
Trent refused to allow me to contribute any money for rent while he’s gone which means my meager finances stretch a lot further. Plus, since it’s in Uptown and close to everything, including my school, my car is currently being stored at my parents’ house through the school year.
By the time the elevator reaches my floor, the tenth floor where there are only two apartments, I’m dragging the nylon bag that carries my lunch leftovers and the leather office satchel my parents gave me as a gift. I should take more care with it since I know it cost a lot, it’s hard at the moment to care.
My eyes are barely half-open, my hair styled so nicely earlier this morning in an attempt to look decent my first weeks of school is now tangled. Sweat is dripping down my spine and probably staining the blouse I’m wearing in that same attempt.
Not that it matters or went noticed. Most graduate students still dress in rumpled sweats and tees, not caring about their appearance. We still spend hours in class, more hours in the library doing research and even more hours writing and researching after hours. I was always taught to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, and I want to excel in teaching, not slump my way through school.
I might not have come from money, but I do come from a family with a lot of pride and honor in who we are.
I unlock my door and enter, dropping my satchel inside the door. After flipping on a few light switches, I drag my feet to the kitchen and plop down my lunch bag. My mouth is parched since I forgot my water bottle on the kitchen counter this morning when I left. It’s ninety-eight degrees outside and my last classroom of the day faces west and has broken blinds. I just spent hours where it felt more like one hundred and twenty. Every minute I spent in my chair increased my exhaustion exponentially.
But it’s Friday. Four o’clock. I have survived my first two weeks of my second year and now I have the entire weekend to do nothing but study, research, do laundry, and clean.
“Thank goodness,” I mutter. I empty the earlier forgotten water bottle, refill it, and as I’m chugging the water in my desperate need to rehydrate from all the sweat I lost today, I pull open the freezer to decide on tonight’s dinner.
Frozen fire-grilled steak and rice bowl? Enchiladas? Spinach ravioli?
“Ugh.” I close the freezer door and pull up Uber Eats instead. I’ll eat the frozen meals when I’m desperate or when my bank account is on its last breath before a stipend check arrives. I’m not quite there yet.
After I order my meal, I head to my bedroom where I strip out of my skirt and blouse into a much more comfortable pair of yoga shorts and a tank top with a built-in bra.
In the bathroom, I wash off my half-ruined makeup and reapply moisturizer. My hair that looked so cute this morning, curled in loose beach waves now looks like I spent hours rubbing balloons all over it before jumping into the dryer without a dryer sheet. And that’s with it being pulled up halfway through the day into a bun.
Thanks North Carolina, for the humidity that never quits. I pull my hair back into a low and loose ponytail.
The corner soaking tub silently calls to my tired limbs and I promise myself after I get food in me, I’ll spend the rest of the evening taking a bubble bath while having a glass of wine and reading my new romance novel. I’ve been waiting all week to dive into it.
“Soon, dear friend.” I lovingly pat the edge of the tub on my way out. I’m a bubble bath lover to the extreme and weeks like this are exactly why. There’s nothing more relaxing than soaking in hot water until the knotted stress at my shoulders and lower back from sitting all day long melt into the tub.
The very idea and reminder that I get to spend days relaxing pushes a pep in my step as I head back down the long hallway to the living area.
Trent’s home is absolutely gorgeous. Not only does it have a stunning view of Uptown, but the horizon casts a beautiful glow at sunrise when the sun rises above the endless trees in the distance. I’m lucky to have an uncle who loves me enough to offer me up his place instead of having to commute into Charlotte from a suburb, the only place I could afford rent, or live in a cramped apartment with other grad students. Living with my girlfriends in college was one thing, but they’re now all starting their careers while I continue to get a Master’s in Education, and I don’t want to be studying while they’re out having fun.
Essentially, life is good, better than I ever expected I could have growing up the daughter of a plumber and a dental hygienist. And it will be fantastic once my sushi and noodle bowl arrives.
Give me all the carbs. I’m a hungry girl.
A loud thump echoes from the hall and my brows furrow before my feet quickly take me to my peephole. Yeah, it’s possible I’m a stalker, but my neighbor across the hall is to die for gorgeous.
He’s young like me and I’ve seen him wear a pinstripe suit looking mouth-watering sexy. It’s a debate I have with myself whether he’s sexier in the suit carrying a weekend bag when I see him come and go or if it’s the black athletic pants, skintight T-shirt he wears while carrying a large duffel bag that’s even more glorious.
Honestly, the man i
s too beautiful for words, and while I’ve never gathered up the courage to say hello to him, I can’t say I don’t semi-stalk his departures and arrivals whenever I hear his door close.
By the time I get to the peephole, there’s a blur of movement in front of my door and then my cell dings with a text. I grab it quickly only to roll my eyes. Pierre is super nice, but he’s not exactly the best doorman in our building. Which means the blur of movement outside my door is the delivery man.
I should be notified before they reach the elevators, but Pierre gets distracted easily.
Without thought, I open my door, thank the boy who looks only a year or two younger than me for my dinner and give another wistful look at my neighbor’s now closed door.
Someday I should gather up my courage to go say hello. Maybe ask him for a cup of sugar or an egg. Bake some cupcakes for him or find some excuse to introduce myself instead of the hellos we exchange as we cross paths in the hallway or elevators.
He always seems to be leaving when I’m returning home or vice versa.
Further, unfortunately, I’ve never successfully baked a thing. I’m allergic to eggs, and when it comes to courage? Well, I’m not sure I got the lion’s share of that growing up.
Maybe someday I’ll think of a viable excuse, but until then, there’s sushi, noodles, and bubble baths to keep me company. I flip on Netflix, drown out to the afternoon evening news, something I find equally depressing and intriguing while I eat my dinner. When I’m full, I pack away half of it for leftovers. Then I fill my wineglass and grab my Kindle. It’s bath time, and then a night of solo Netflix and chill for me.