Together, they rose from the floor. She took his face in her hands again, staring into his ocean-blue eyes, awed by the ferocity of her love for him, by its boundless capacity for growth and change. Henny was her oldest and most cherished friend, and in so many ways it felt as if they’d already shared a lifetime together. Now, they’d be starting a new one, filling it with brand new memories as husband and wife. And maybe someday, as Mom and Dad.
For everything she knew about Henny, there was still so much more to discover. Lifetimes upon lifetimes to share with him.
Bex had never felt so blessed, so complete.
“I’m crazy for you,” she whispered. “You know that, right?”
He swept the curls off her forehead, his eyes intense. “You’re so beautiful. I can’t stop looking at you.”
“You never have to.” She kissed him again, holding him close, inhaling his clean, masculine scent. The soft thud of his heart was a familiar drumbeat against her own, the sound of love, the sound of home. Glancing at her ring again, she said, “Does everyone already know? Does Mom?”
“Not the details. I asked for her blessing two months ago, though.”
“You’ve been planning this for two months?”
“Not so much planning as waiting for the right moment.”
“Did Mom bring up the lake again?” When they’d finally told her mother about their relationship a few months ago, she’d smiled knowingly, claiming she’d seen it coming for years, and implored them to come clean about the fact that they’d had sex at the lake in high school. Despite what her mother believed, they hadn’t. Of course, they’d since remedied their lakeside oversight with a few recent trips to the beach, but Mom didn’t need to know about that.
Henny laughed. “I finally admitted that you threw yourself at me like a common hussy, but being a gentleman of class, I—”
“Hussy? Who says that?”
“What she actually said was, ‘What the hell took you so long?’ Then she proceeded to call your aunt and order her to pay up. Apparently they had a bet going on us. Started the day you moved back to Buffalo.”
“Seriously? Those old broads are worse than Walker and Roscoe. They need to mind their own business.”
“Good luck with that. Aunt Sharon already put a wager up for our first kid.” Henny shrugged. “She’s giving us a year, but Mom said eighteen months. I say we split the difference.”
“And I say we need more practice. Do you even know how to make babies, Mr. I Looked At Porn Instead of Studying in Health Class?”
“You’re a much better teacher than Mrs. Farnsworth and her produce. Way hotter, too.” Henny kissed her again, nibbling her lower lip until she went weak in the knees. “With your heartfelt dedication to my studies, we’ll figure it out in no time.”
“Starting tonight. Right now we’ve got a party to host.” She arched a brow. “To be continued?”
Henny winked. “Holding you to it, my little grapefruit.”
“I… wow. You really are disturbed.”
“You know you love it.” Henny reached for her hand, his eyes sparkling like the ring on her finger. “You ready for this, beautiful?”
Bex glanced at the phoenix magnet on her cabinet, the mythical bird reborn out of the ashes, and knew that whatever waited on the other side of that door—at the Silver Phoenix’s grand opening, at the Tempest games, at the place she and Henny would make their home, for all the celebrations and challenges to come—they’d face it together. Not just as lovers, but as true partners and confidants. As co-conspirators. As husband and wife. As friends.
The very best.
Her heart swelled with joy.
Yes, she was ready for this. Ready to rise up, spread her wings, and take on the world. With Henny by her side, she was ready for anything.
Blinking away the happiest tears, Bex took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the light.
Thank you so much for reading DOWN TO PUCK! You’ve gotten to know Henny and Bex, but have you read Walker and Eva’s story? If you love the Buffalo Tempest boys, be sure to check out NAUGHTY OR ICE! Read on for an excerpt…
NAUGHTY OR ICE
The pain was damn near crippling.
Walker Dunn sucked in a breath of cold air and clenched his teeth, his skate trembling against the ice as he waited for the white-hot agony in his knee to subside. He hoped McKellen hadn’t noticed.
Fuck.
That one had been bad. Stomach-churning bad. Seeing-stars bad.
But not bad enough for the once unstoppable Buffalo Tempest starting center to call it a day. Not until he’d nailed McKellen’s agility drills. Walker had been working with the hockey trainer for over two months now—ever since the team doc had given the all-clear for practice again—and his times still weren’t anywhere near where they’d been at the end of last season.
Shaking off the pain, Walker skated back to the goal line, signaled to McKellen to restart the stopwatch.
Three, two, one… and he was off, barreling toward McKellen and the orange cones at the other end of the rink. He’d ditched the stick and puck earlier, but he was otherwise geared up, the weight of his pads and helmet solid and familiar. The pain had finally dulled to a tolerable ache, and Walker pushed himself harder, faster, blades slashing across the ice, cold air whipping his face. He felt like a freight train, picking up speed with every powerful stroke.
Fuck yeah.
He was past center ice and closing in on the cones.
Fifty feet, forty.
The knee would hold up this time.
Twenty-five feet.
Had to.
Ten. Five. Two, and boom.
The cones were an orange blur as Walker cut his blades and swizzled around the first set, his turns tight, muscles limber as he plowed through the course.
“That’s it, forty-six,” McKellen called out. “Keep it going!”
Whipping around behind the net, Walker tore down the rink to his starting position, then looped back to the cones for another go. Again. Again. Each time feeling stronger, faster, more powerful. The ache in his knee was a distant memory as his muscles and bones and heart and fucking soul all lined up to do what they did best.
After Walker’s fifth time through the course, McKellen blew the whistle and waved him over. “Bring it in, forty-six.”
Panting, Walker came to a hard stop in front of the trainer, eager for the news. “What are we looking at?”
“Not too bad.” McKellen’s tone was neutral as he glanced up from his stopwatch, but the look in his eyes said it all.
Walker’s gut clenched.
Doug “Mac” McKellen was a decent guy, helped train and rehab hockey players all over the country, NHL and college alike. Head Coach Gallagher had brought him in from Saint Paul to work with some of the injured guys on the team, but mostly for Walker, hoping they could get him back on the ice before the season ended. The dude was smart and straightforward, didn’t pull any punches. So Walker knew before the man uttered another word that his damn times—while better than they’d been two months ago—still weren’t strong enough to get him back into the starting lineup.
“Tell me what I need to do,” Walker said.
“You need to tighten up your turns. Shave another twenty, thirty seconds off these times, minimum.” McKellen glanced at the cones and shook his head. “And you need to do it again and again, bang on, every day, every time.”
“Thirty seconds?” Swallowing his despair, Walker nodded brusquely. “Alright, Mac. Line ‘em up. Let’s go again.”
Coach Gallagher, who’d been sitting quiet as a statue on the players’ bench until now, folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Your edges are a mess, Dunn,” he called out. “Turns are loose. Leg is dragging. You’re hurtin’ today, boy.”
Yeah? You get your ass crushed in a rollover wreck, see how great your legs work.
Walker pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to shake the foul attitude. The me
dics who’d dragged him out of that wreck said he was damn lucky to be alive, and most days, he believed them. But damn, the crash happened in June, and it was already the end of November. After six months of suffering nearly unbearable pain—and almost losing the ability to play entirely—he was truly starting to resent his own body.
“He’s right, Walker,” McKellen said, keeping his voice low, just between them. “I can see the pain in your face clear across the rink.”
If there was one thing Walker hated more than being injured, it was people feeling sorry for him for being injured. And right now, McKellen’s eyes were full of sympathy, voice thick as cough syrup. He’d take the coach’s hard edges over that weepy bullshit any day.
“No pain, no gain, right?” he said, forcing a tight smile.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” McKellen said. “Look, you keep pushing it out here, you’ll put your entire recovery at risk. One fuck-up, and you’re looking at riding the bench the rest of your life—not just on the hockey rink. That what you want?”
Walker jerked the helmet from his head, ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. He was losing steam, the adrenaline from his earlier successes draining out of him. “You know it isn’t.”
“Then you need to listen to me. To the docs. I know you’re anxious to get back out there, but you need to let this recovery run its course. Your body will tell you when it’s ready.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Mac. I don’t have the luxury of letting this shit heal on its own timeline.” Walker jerked his head toward the coach, keeping his voice in check, but just barely. “Term’s almost up. If I don’t get back on the active roster this season, they won’t renew my contract, and then I’m out on my ass. Permanently.”
Walker knew it, sure as he knew how to hold a stick and pass a puck. No matter how good he’d been in his prime, no matter how many records he’d broken, no matter how loyal he’d been to the Tempest, no NHL team would sign a washed-up puck jockey with a bum knee and shit times.
Walker tugged his helmet back into place. He had to make this work.
McKellen shook his head, blew out a frustrated breath. Holding up his hands in surrender, he said, “It’s your life, son. Make the call.”
“One more run, then we’ll see where we’re at.” Without waiting for a response, Walker skated to the goal line at the other end of the rink as fast as he could, pivoting in a sharp turn in front of the net.
Bad idea.
He’d twisted too hard, thrown off his balance. His left foot slid ahead while his right knee stayed behind, and then he was on his ass, helmet skittering across the ice.
Another bolt of pain shot through his leg, radiating all the way up to his hip. He pulled himself up again, but it was a fight to stay on his feet, not to just crumple back to the ice like a fucking baby. Not to shut his eyes and let the darkness seep in.
Walker tried to tell himself it was just an off day. Not enough sleep last night, maybe, or hitting the free weights too hard at the gym this morning before the session. But the little nagging bitch who’d set up camp inside his head said otherwise, and as much as he’d tried to ignore that bitch, he couldn’t ignore the searing pain.
His knee was on fire, and just like that, he was back in that car.
Swerving to miss the kid on the bike who’d darted out into the intersection, not even looking.
The screech of brakes, the smell of burnt rubber.
Metal on metal.
Broken glass.
Blood in his mouth.
Sirens.
Lucky to be alive…
“Walker.” McKellen’s hand clamped down over his shoulder, yanking Walker back to the present. “You good?”
Walker clenched his teeth, then opened his mouth and spit on the ice. There wasn’t any blood—not really. His legs were straight. He was here, on the rink, in full pads, still fucking alive. He nodded.
“We’re going to plan B,” McKellen said, signaling to Coach.
Walker had no idea what the hell was going on, but he could already tell he wasn’t going to like it. “What’s plan B?”
McKellen looked at him a good long while, assessing. Whatever the man was looking for, Walker was pretty damn sure he didn’t find it. Which sucked, because it was McKellen’s recommendation that would get him back into the lineup, and the way the man was looking at Walker now… fuck.
Walker was bracing himself for the bad news when McKellen finally spoke. “Take five,” he said. “Do a few easy laps. I need to talk to Gallagher.”
Walker did a lap around the rink, his strides long and deliberate, slowly working the pain out of his joints. But the tension in his muscles remained, winding his insides tight as a drum.
There on the bench, it wasn’t just McKellen and Gallagher anymore. The GM was there, too, along with the assistant coach, the team’s lead doctor, and some stiff in a suit. The six of them sat together, heads bent over a clipboard, shrugging and nodding, his fate in their hands.
Walker sighed. He knew they were just looking out for him. Protecting their asset. Hell, they wanted him back on the ice almost as badly as he wanted it; before the wreck, he’d led the league in assists three years running. With his left and right wingers—Rob “Roscoe” LeGrand and Kyle “Henny” Henderson, two guys he’d take a fist, a body-check, or a bullet for—he’d helped make the Tempest the top-scoring team in the NHL last year. The rookie playing first line center now was better than some of the second- and third-line guys who’d been on the team for years—a damn good hockey player. But he wasn’t Walker Dunn good.
Everyone on that bench knew it. His teammates knew it. Hell, everyone in the whole league knew it.
But they also knew Walker couldn’t play with an injured knee. And after three separate surgeries, a fuckload of physical therapy, pain meds up the ass, and endless workouts at the gym and on the ice, he’d hit a damn wall.
His times had plateaued. The pain was coming more frequently, lasting longer, requiring more pills to ease the ache each time. The docs had warned Walker about the possibility of a setback like this, but he’d shrugged it off. Accident aside, he was a world-class athlete at the top of his game, in better physical condition that most guys half his age.
He just wished his knee had gotten the fucking memo. Lately he’d been feeling more like a retiree than an athlete, and it showed. He could tell by the way management looked at him, a rage-inducing mix of frustration and pity, like they were ten seconds away from signing his death warrant. The guys sitting on the bench had the power to decide his future, and if Walker didn’t get back in the game soon, retirement could be closer than he wanted to admit.
No, thirty-two years old wasn’t exactly ancient in the NHL. But for every thirty- and forty-something career standout, there were a dozen twenty-year-old kids waiting in the wings, just as wild and hungry as Walker had been at that age. And healthier. Stronger. Faster.
Hockey was Walker’s thing. His only thing. He didn’t know how to do anything else, how to be anyone else. Without the ice, without the uniform, without number forty-six, Walker was a damn ghost in his own life.
And no matter how bad it hurt, no matter how hard he had to push himself, Walker would not walk away from his career.
Not to mention the money.
Walker sighed, shook his head to clear his thoughts. It wasn’t just about money—of course not. But anyone who said money couldn’t solve problems? Hell, that guy must’ve had a better childhood than Walker.
That guy also didn’t have a mother in a top-of-the-line Alzheimer’s facility, or two younger brothers still in college. Dear old Dad had checked himself out of their lives years earlier, and if the docs were right about Mom—and when it came to the docs at Wellshire Place, they usually were right—it wouldn’t be long before she couldn’t recognize any of them.
Walker was all they had. Yeah, he loved hockey. Loved being on the ice. But he also loved taking care of his family. Looking out for them. Making sure they�
�d never know the pain and fear he’d felt as a kid, afraid to dream, afraid to think there might be a better life waiting out there. And while there was all kinds of suffering money couldn’t help, Walker would die before he let his mother spend a night hungry, or cold, or reliving any of the myriad shitty things his father had put her through over the years. All of that was behind her now. Behind all of them.
And Walker had every intention of keeping it that way.
“Alright, forty-six. Here’s the deal.” McKellen skated over from the bench. Behind him, most of the others packed up and took off, leaving only Coach Gallagher. “We’re trying a different approach. Got someone for you to meet.”
How was that even possible? Walker felt like he’d already met with every coach, manager, doctor, physical therapist, and shrink in New York State. The only thing they hadn’t subjected him to was hanging out with fans—an idea Gallagher had floated early on as a way to help him get his spirits up. Walker had immediately shot it down.
Good God, he hoped they weren’t going there again.
“Please tell me it’s not another groupie.” Not that he didn’t appreciate their enthusiasm, but as far as he was concerned, his job was to play hockey. Help his team get into the playoffs. And yeah, maybe entertaining the crowds during the games and at fundraisers was part of the gig, but that didn’t mean he had to open up a vein and let them into his personal pain.
“Just someone who might be able to help. Assuming you’re up for the challenge.” McKellen pulled off his knit cap, raked a hand through his gray hair. He wouldn’t meet Walker’s eyes. “I’ll be real honest with you, kid. You might not like it. But at this point, you don’t have a choice.”
The fuck?
“Just do us all a favor.” McKellen finally looked at Walker, the warning clear in his eyes. “Don’t scare her off.”
I’ll give you one guess who’s waiting for Walker at the other end of the ice! Find out how these two fierce and fiery competitors finally settle the score in NAUGHTY OR ICE!
Down to Puck (Buffalo Tempest Hockey Book 2) Page 21