Shots on Goal (Stick Side Book 3)

by Amy Aislin

  “What was it that made you let the anger go?” he asked. “Learning the truth?”

  “Partly.” Roman regarded Cody like he knew where the question was coming from. “And partly it’s from the regret Kas obviously feels. Mostly it was from realizing that I could have my best friend back if I wanted to, but only if I let go of almost a decade of bitterness. Besides, I didn’t really like the person it had turned me into, and . . .” A wry tilt of the lips. “You can’t change the past. Just live with it. Learn from it. It didn’t make sense to still be mad about something that happened when we were kids. So yeah. Kas and I, we’re . . .” He wagged his head side to side in a sort of eh gesture. “We’re okay. Not great, but okay. It’s my other teammates I need to worry about now.”

  “Meaning?”

  Roman played with the straw in his glass. “I sort of alienated them in the last week.”

  “Why would you do that? Also, sidebar: are you going to eat your crusts?”

  “Have at it.” He nudged his plate across the table. “I was in a dark place and being an asshole about it. Any ideas on how to win them back over?”

  Thinking it through, Cody bit into one of the crusts. It was stone cold by now, but pizza dough was pizza dough and it was delicious either way. “Make them apple turnovers?”

  Roman’s mouth opened, possibly to refute given the furrow between his eyes, but then he straightened with a “Huh” before reaching for a fourth slice.

  Half an hour later, Cody started to get nervous, great butterflies dancing in his belly. It wasn’t because of the flakes the size of his fist that fell steadily and heavily from a gray-darkened sky as Roman drove them home.

  It had everything to do with the man sitting next to him, who was currently driving below the speed limit and eyeing the deserted roads with trepidation. Coming up was the part of the night where the first kiss typically happened.

  In general, Cody was more or less ambivalent about kissing. He wanted to kiss Roman rather desperately, but too much tongue made him want to throw up, and the nerves stemmed from not knowing what kind of kisser Roman was. And god, please don’t let Roman be one of those ear-biters and neck-slobberers. How did anybody find it sexy to have their ear or neck sucked on? Cody’s ears and neck were not erogenous zones. They were functional.

  He thought he should probably tell Roman that, but now, as Roman turned the corner onto Cody’s street slowly and with exceptional precision, was not the right time.

  “I thought this wasn’t supposed to start until overnight,” Roman said, coming to a gentle stop at the curb in front of Cody’s house.

  “Me too.” Considering the earlier sunshine, the storm had been a shock when they’d come out of Mama Jean’s.

  Cody opened his door and stepped out, his boots crunching in the snow. It was like a cannon blast in the otherwise silent night, the kind of night that made Cody think of Christmas and sitting quietly by the fire and hot chocolate. Already several inches of snow layered the roads, rooftops, the tops of lampposts and mailboxes and cars. It was windless, the temperature hovering in the mid- to low-twenties; not overly cold, yet cold enough to see his breath.

  Roman met him on the sidewalk. Without thinking, Cody reached for his hand and twined their cold fingers together. Something about the eerie silence of the night and the fresh snow that glittered in the lamplight called for hand holding.

  On the front stoop, the porch light cast patterned shadows against the front door, on the brick house, on the angled planes of Roman’s face.

  “Thanks for tonight,” Cody said, keeping his voice soft, the hairs on his body standing up in anticipation. “I had a good time.”

  “Yeah?” Roman squeezed Cody’s fingers. “Me too.” Then he looked around, toward the driveway, looking both ways down the street, behind him, even behind Cody where there was nothing except brick and the porch light over his head.

  “What?” Cody checked too, but nothing seemed amiss. “What’s wrong? What are you looking for?”

  “Potential interruptions.”

  It took him a second, then he threw his head back and laughed, his breath pluming between them. “Ha!” He stepped into Roman’s space, tilting his head up. “Not this time.”

  “No,” Roman agreed, eyes dark. “Not this time.”

  His hand came up, the pads of his fingers running so gently over Cody’s cheek they left tingles in their wake. Weak-kneed, Cody’s breath caught. Held. Stepping right into Roman’s space, he twined his arms around Roman’s waist, underneath his open coat, a chorus of yes, yes, yes on repeat in his head.

  Cold lips met, warming quickly. Cody’s hands clenched on the back of Roman’s T-shirt. Roman tasted faintly sweet from his iced tea. Their noses bumped and their lips clung and thank God. Thank God Roman didn’t feel the need to explore Cody’s mouth with his tongue, instead brushing their tongues together once, twice. Leisurely. The feel of Roman’s tongue ring made Cody shiver.

  One hand on Cody’s hips, Roman pulled back enough to run the back of the other over his cheek. “You’re thinking too much.”

  “You’re right.” Cody nudged a thigh between Roman’s and caught Roman’s hard swallow. “Make me stop.”

  Roman’s grin was delighted and slightly evil. “Challenge accepted.”

  And then he kissed Cody, arms coming around him, one hand clamping onto a butt cheek and hauling, bringing their lower halves up close and personal. Cody shuddered, threaded his arms around Roman’s neck, and kissed back just as hard, just as hungrily. His nails scraped the back of Roman’s shaved head, making Roman moan into his mouth.

  Kissing Roman was like getting swept away on a tide. Nothing else existed except the two of them and the feel of Roman’s mouth on his, insistent and hot and powerful. Their winter-clothes-clad bodies pressed hard together heated him up from the inside out.

  Roman’s lips left his, ostensibly to breathe given the lungful of oxygen he sucked in, but Cody wasn’t having it. Palming the back of his head, he whispered a throaty “Come back,” and Roman followed directions.

  There was really nothing quite like kissing a smokin’ hot guy in the middle of a snowstorm. The cold was juxtaposed against the fire heating his veins and the nerves that got shot straight to hell and back.

  Fuck, Roman could kiss.

  They separated, breaths choppy. Cody rested his forehead against Roman’s temple, breathing in the scent of him, bringing one arm around to palm Roman’s neck and feel his pounding pulse. It was every bit as fast as Cody’s. Then, because he wanted to, he kissed Roman again. Soft. Gentle. Quiet.

  “I should go,” Roman murmured a minute later.

  Cody turned his head toward the street, where a couple more inches of snow had accumulated in the last few minutes alone. “You could stay here,” he blurted without thinking. “Go back in the morning.”

  “I could, but I’ve got morning skate tomorrow before I need to get ready to fly out with the team.” Roman squinted at the snow. “And I’m guessing your little side street is one of the last to get plowed.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true,” Cody said, disappointment and relief warring for dominance.

  “Unless.” Roman swung his head Cody’s way. “That was . . . an invitation?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, no.” Stepping back, Cody rubbed his cheekbone where his glasses had apparently dug in while they’d kissed. Hadn’t even felt it at the time. “Just . . . to sleep.”

  “Thank you, but . . .” Roman ran a hand down Cody’s arm and grasped his hand. “I’m gonna head home on the off chance I don’t make it back on time tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay. Text me when you get home so I know you made it?”

  “Sure.” He tugged Cody closer. “One more kiss before I go?”

  Grinning, Cody said, “Just one?” against Roman’s lips.

  One turned into two turned into three, and with a final peck, Roman headed down the driveway, hopped into his car, and drove away with a wave.

/>   Inside, Cody took everything off—coat, scarf, boots, hoodie, even his socks—leaving him in jeans and a T-shirt. He was overheated and it was fucking amazing. Touching a fingertip to his cheek, it came away hot. He was flushed from the neck up.

  Blowing out a breath on a small laugh, he headed up the stairs, a bounce in his step. At the top, he found Mitch leaning against the doorjamb of his bedroom.

  With a grin, Mitch pointed at Cody. “You.” Into the bedroom. “In. Tell me everything.”

  Laughing, lighter than air, he skipped up to Mitch, linked arms, and pulled him into the bedroom to tell him everything.

  Making amends with his teammates was much more difficult than it had been with Cody.

  Roman didn’t try in Montreal, too busy wracking his brain for a topic for his hockey-themed library talk that was coming up more swiftly than he’d like. Besides, the guys tended to fall into loner patterns when they were on the road. Headphones on, book in hand, video calls to family, catching up on TV shows and movies. At least four of them that Roman knew of were taking college courses and they always took the time to study while on the road. Plus many of them had side projects, like Honeybun, for instance, who constantly had his nose in one herb and plant book or another.

  He failed too in New York because he kept scowling at everyone. It wasn’t on purpose; he was still stuck without a speaking topic because Cody kept telling him his ideas sucked—just with much nicer language. Which meant he was trying to think of better topics and since his thinking face equaled scowl, his team gave him a wide berth.

  By the time they got to Toronto with two wins behind them, he was back to being an ornery asshole if only because he was annoyed with himself for failing to think of a single fucking idea that might interest someone—or a few someones—to listen to him. He didn’t want to disappoint Cody, but he was stumped. Beyond his daily workout regime, caloric intake and nutritional needs, or practice schedule, he had nothing.

  Point number two for being an ornery bastard? He missed Cody more than he’d thought possible.

  You did say I could talk about anything related to hockey, he sent to Cody in a text message a few minutes before his team’s pregame warmup in Toronto on Sunday night.

  I should’ve specified INTERESTING subject related to hockey, Cody sent back. Unless you’re in a room full of gym rats, nobody’s going to care about your workout routine.

  A minute later: I mean that in the nicest way possible.

  Snorting a laugh, Roman set his phone aside and finished tying his skates.

  “What’s so funny?” Ritz asked. He sat on the bench that ran the length of the room, next to Roman, Honeybun on his other side. That Ritz would willingly make conversation with him must mean that Roman had been less scowly than usual today. He could thank Cody for that.

  “Nothing. Just . . .” Roman regarded them both. “Actually, if you had to give a talk about something relating to hockey, what would you talk about?”

  “Depends,” Ritz said. “Who are we talking to?”

  Roman didn’t miss his use of the word we when he referred to himself and Honeybun. “Picture a general crowd of all ages who have some sort of interest in hockey.”

  Honeybun pulled his helmet on. “You could talk about the different positions and their purpose. Not just for the players, but for coaches and management too.”

  “Or about what we do behind the scenes,” Ritz suggested. “It’s not just the game, but the events the organization sponsors and the charity work. I know some of the people in upper management have interns learning the ropes, passing the mantle to the next generation so to speak. There’s a lot that happens that the general public doesn’t get to see.”

  “Huh.” Roman sent a text to Cody, and Cody responded with Those ideas don’t suck!!! “We might have a winner. Thanks, man.”

  “Who are you speaking to?”

  “A small group at the Glen Hill Public Library. Some idiot senior citizen is trying to shut it down, and the folks at the library are trying to stop that from happening.”

  Twin frowns from Ritz and Honeybun. “Why would anyone want to shut down a library?” Honeybun said. “Books are important. Hell, Cotton’s illustrating a children’s book in his spare time.”

  “He is?”

  The three of them turned to look at Cotton, sitting on the bench in front of his cubby, tapping into his phone. As if he felt eyes on him, he glanced up and found them staring. He looked to his left. Right. Behind him. The gesture reminded Roman of Cody, and he grinned.

  “Yes?” Cotton finally said.

  Honeybun leaned over and patted him on the knee. “Keep up the good work, Cotton.”

  The bewildered expression on Cotton’s face was hysterical. “Um, thanks?”

  They turned back around, and Ritz said, “How can we help?”

  “Uh . . .” Taken aback by the offer, especially given Roman had been the definition of persona non grata lately, he blinked at them both. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  The potential fundraiser came to mind, potential being the operative word since he’d yet to hear back from the engagement staff. He’d emailed them the night he’d returned from his first date with Cody, right after sending Cody a Got home safe text to which Cody had responded to with a series of the thumbs-up emoji followed by a selfie of himself and Mitch eating ice cream in bed. Because that was apparently a thing they did? Roman hadn’t asked.

  The picture itself might’ve been damning to anyone else, but Roman couldn’t bring himself to unbury an ounce of jealousy. Primarily because he trusted Cody—which was an oddity he refused to think about too deeply—but also because Mitch was so in love with Alex Dean it was mildly disgusting. Mitch would never encroach on Roman’s territory.

  Not that Cody was his territory, God, and why was he even thinking in those terms? They’d had one date.

  Coach came in then to give his usual pregame pep talk, one that essentially could be summed up as “Don’t ruin your winning streak,” and then they were on the ice, warming up and shooting pucks at their goalie.

  Alex Dean met him at center ice wearing a grin and held out a gloved fist. Roman bumped it with his own.

  “Ready for your winning streak to end?” Dean asked.

  “Bring it on, asshole.”

  Dean skated away, his laughter trailing behind him.

  Bring it on Toronto did.

  Ritz scored with an assist from Honeybun at the beginning of the first period; Toronto tied moments later. Zanetti scored in the middle of the second; Toronto tied again seconds before the end of that same period. Roman, determined to prove Dean wrong, scored with an assist from Kabaikina four minutes into the third period.

  Alex Dean, because he was just as determined, tied the game minutes later.

  “I hate you,” Roman growled at him as Dean skated past.

  Dean bumped their shoulders. “You need more shots on goal.”

  Yes, Roman was aware. Coach Donovan had said something similar in the locker room during the last intermission. “It’s amazing you’ve been able to keep up tonight with your paltry shots on goal.”

  Roman still wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a passive-aggressive insult.

  His shift ended and he was back on the bench. It was then that he noticed it—Ritz still hesitated before shooting to his right winger. Roman had meant to talk to him about that, but then Kas had arrived and he’d gone into protective turtle mode.

  A few minutes later, he was back on the ice and stealing the puck from a Toronto forward. This was their third away game in a row, it was day five of being away from home, and there was no way he was letting this tied game go into overtime. As much as he loved the sport, he was tired and he wanted to go home, a sentiment he was sure many of his fellow teammates would corroborate.

  Not that overtime would delay them going home—their flight was tomorrow morning—but still. After a grueling week, overtime was the last thing his team needed.

  He f
lew down the ice, a bead of sweat running down his temple, spun around a Toronto player, and passed to Zanetti, who got wedged between a Toronto defenseman and forward against the boards near Toronto’s net. He passed blindly behind him, the puck getting picked up by one of Toronto’s forwards.

  Oh, hell no.

  Roman intercepted him near the blue line, stealing the puck again to the sound of cursing behind him. Jacoba was right in front of the net, but between him and Roman stood Toronto’s two defensemen. The roar of the crowd in his ears and in his head, Roman took a chance and shot as true as he could, sending the puck sailing between the legs of the defenseman on his right, toward Zanetti’s speeding form as he came around the defenseman shouting, “To me!” He caught the puck, backhanded it to Jacoba. Perfectly placed, Jacoba snapped the puck into the net so hard it bounced back out, but that second where it’d made it home was all that was needed.

  The goal horn sounded and the Trailblazers fans cheered. Roman slapped Jacoba on the back, and Zanetti came at them from the other side.

  “Dude,” he said to Roman, and was there a little bit of awe in his voice? “What the hell made you shoot between his legs?”

  Roman shrugged. “Took a chance.”

  Later, in the locker room after a shower and change, he sat on the bench in front of his cubby, pulled out his phone, and found several messages from Cody.

  Dude, you totally just let Toronto take the puck!

  I know you have a reputation for being good at stealing the puck so GO GET IT BACK!

  Ooh, nice pass to Zanetti there.

  Shots on goal, Roman. SHOTS ON GOAL! It’ll be a miracle if you win. Toronto has twice as many.

  That being said, it says a lot about your goalie : ) He’s improved a lot recently.

  Woohoo! Score! Go Roman! Go Roman! Go, go, go Roman!

  Dude. You just let Alex score on you! What even was that? YOU CAN’T LET THE ENEMY WIN.

  (Not that Alex is the enemy, mind, but you know what I mean. Don’t let him score on my man.)

  Not that you’re my man. That’s not what I meant. Unless you want to be?