Plastering a smile on her face, she murmured a soft, “Hello,” and then strode past him, her heels clicking on the hallway floor.
But she could still feel his disapproving gaze on her as she walked away.
TWENTY-ONE
Colorado was not going to win tonight.
Nope. Not winning.
Brody repeated that mantra in his head as he dressed for game five of the series. Right now, the series stood at 3-1. If Colorado won tonight, the Warriors would be out of the playoffs.
Luckily, Colorado wasn’t going to fucking win tonight.
The roar of the crowd was deafening as Brody hopped out of the bench and stepped onto the ice for his first shift of the night, the chill of the rink biting through his gear. It was game time, and he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Fuck yes. This was where he thrived. In his element.
He got in position next to Wyatt at center and Jones at right wing. A few seconds later the puck dropped, and it was a race to gain control. The opposing center lunged forward at Wyatt, knocking the puck away from Wyatt’s stick. It skittered sideways, and Brody dug his blade in, pushing as hard as he could. In a burst of power, he gained possession and deked out his opponent, then flicked the puck backward to Jones, who took off like a rocket.
The voices in the arena became a distant buzz as the Warriors’ first line weaved through the opposition, snapping the puck back and forth with pinpoint accuracy. The rink seemed to shrink as Brody approached the opposing team’s zone. The crowd’s collective gasps and cheers were the only reminders of the world outside the plexiglass walls. He was somewhere else now, wholly focused on one goal—score. Because scoring first would set the tone for the rest of this game.
The opposing defenseman, however, wasn’t going to let Brody through easily. He lunged, stick outstretched, trying to disrupt Brody’s attack. He snapped the puck back to Wyatt, but his captain didn’t have a shot. Elbowing the Colorado asshole who kept bumping him around, Brody saw Wyatt pass the puck back through a forest of legs and skates. The puck connected with Brody’s stick, and for a brief moment, time seemed to slow. He could see the openings, the angles, the goalie’s positioning.
He wound up and released a blistering shot. The puck sailed through the air, seeking the back of the net like a guided missile. The goalie reacted, but it was too late.
Goal.
The arena exploded with noise. Cheers from Warriors fans, and disappointed groans and boos from the Colorado home crowd. Brody barely had time to enjoy the exhilaration before Coach Gray called for a line change and he was racing back to the Warriors bench.
“You fucking beast, Croft!” Levy crowed, smacking him on the arm.
“Atta boy,” their coach said with a nod of approval, before turning back to the action in front of them.
Other than a few fist bumps and cheers from the others on the bench, there was no more time to revel in that moment. The game raged on.
He gulped down some water, chest heaving, heart pounding. He was barely there a minute before it was time for another shift.
Playoffs hockey was fucking intense. Faster, better accuracy, high pressure. The tempo was relentless. The puck moved like lightning, and the hits were bone crushing. Colorado wasn’t about to back down, and Brody wouldn’t have it any other way. Every shift was a test of will.
By the time the final buzzer sounded and the Warriors secured the W, Brody felt like he’d fought a war. He hadn’t come away from it unscathed, his shoulder aching from a deadly cross-check in the third. Still, he was practically floating on air as he followed his teammates into the locker room.
“That’s how we do it!” Jones shouted, jumping up on the bench as he celebrated the victory.
“We’re not out of it yet,” their teammate Cody piped up. His face was flushed, eyes bright with satisfaction.
No, they weren’t out of it. And the next game would be a home one, which gave them a solid chance of tying the series. Sure, that meant game seven would be back in Colorado, but hell, they needed to get to a game seven first.
Brody hit the showers, then returned to his locker to check his phone. He couldn’t stop a smile when he found a text from Hayden, congratulating him for the win. He quickly sent a message in response.
BRODY: Thanks, Professor. Means a lot.
His smile widened when she immediately started typing.
HAYDEN: I told you to stop calling me that!
BRODY: Why? It’s hot.
HAYDEN: How is me being a professor hot?
BRODY: Babe, every guy has fantasized about his teacher at one point in his life. Trust me, it’s hot.
HAYDEN: In that case, do you want me to wear some slacks and a blazer when I see you tomorrow?
BRODY: Fuck yeah.
HAYDEN: Maybe put my hair in a tight bun too...
BRODY: I’m in public, stop turning me on.
He shrugged his suit jacket on, which he was mandated to wear on away games, and especially during the playoffs. Then he typed out her another message.
BRODY: What are you thinking for dinner tomorrow? I can bring Chinese.
HAYDEN: Yes please! And make sure to get the broccoli eggplant and chow mein.
BRODY: I hope you know that’s not the only eggplant you’re getting.
“Did you just refer to your dick as an eggplant?” Jones asked from behind him, and Brody swore when he realized the rookie was reading over his shoulder.
“Hey, privacy!” He quickly shoved the phone in his pocket.
