Pucking Around: A Why Choose Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 1)
Pucking Around: Chapter 24

A shutout! The Jacksonville Rays beat the Carolina Hurricanes 4-0 in their first game of the season. The guys were on fire tonight. Even as the away team, the mood in the arena was electric, with all the fans excited to see a new NHL team hit the ice. Sure, they booed each time the Rays scored, but Kinnunen made a few truly spectacular saves that had the Carolina fans screaming in their seats with frustration and awe.

And I had a front row seat for it all. Well, technically I was standing behind the front row. I tried to make myself small as possible, wedged in the corner of the player’s bench, watching as the guys passed the puck and slammed the other team into the boards.

Not gonna lie, it did unholy things to my lady parts to watch Jake Compton on the ice. He was laughing and joking all through the warm-ups, flashing me those hazel ‘fuck me’ eyes. But the moment that warm-up jersey came off, and he skated out under the music and the lights, it’s like he became a different person. He wasn’t my fun-loving Mystery Boy. He was No. 42, Jake Compton, and he was lethal.

When I wasn’t watching the guys on the ice, my gaze kept trailing to the other end of the player’s bench where Caleb was hard at work. He and Jerry were on a constant rotation—passing out sticks, changing blades, handing over water bottles and towels. It made me feel guilty for my role, which was to stand in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, and just praying I wouldn’t be needed.

Seconds before the final buzzer, the Rays erupt with cheers, the puck sliding forgotten along the ice. The Carolina fans clap for us and our first ever team victory in the NHL.

The bench clears out as the guys book it back to the locker room. We’ve got a tight schedule and they all know their roles. Most of the team will hurry up and shower, shedding their uniforms quick so the EMs can finish packing everything. The guys in need of medical treatment or therapies will get it, while at least a couple guys have to go with the coaches to the press briefing.

“Well, Seattle Girl?” Jake said with a wide grin, his face wet with sweat. “How’d you like your first NHL game?”

“You were amazing, Jake. Really incredible,” I say, smiling up at him.

He leans in, his body twice as large as usual in his full kit. “Fuck—god, I wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

I lean away with a laugh. “Fat chance, 42. You smell like a half-dead badger.”

“You looked gorgeous tonight, baby.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m trying to stop my stupid stomach from fluttering.

“What’s it gonna take to get you to wear my jersey to a game?” he asks, eyes scanning my Rays polo. “Of course, you’ll have to keep your little charge paddles handy ‘cause seeing a big 42 across your back might just kill me dead.”

Okay, he’s not allowed to be so good at flirting.

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You’re gonna have to wear a paper bag on your head so you don’t distract me at the next game.”

I roll my eyes. “You seemed pretty dialed in to me.”

“I’m an excellent multitasker,” he replies. “How about we continue this conversation over a drink later? Maybe you sit on my lap naked and tell me more about how amazing I looked out there tonight.”

I give him a shove. “Go, 42. Shower, before you attract vultures.”

“I’m not giving up on us, Seattle. We’re inevitable.”

“Yeah, yeah. Change, before you make Caleb mad.”

That has his smile falling. “Oh, shit—yeah. And I’m up for press tonight. See you on the bus!”

He hurries into the locker room, and I move down the hall to the room set aside for PT. It’s got a nice setup inside with a hot and cold tank, massage tables, stretching equipment, exercise bikes. Walsh and Karlsson come through showered and powder fresh. They both head straight to the massage tables for leg massages. A few more guys filter in and hop on the bikes and start pumping their legs, breaking down their lactic acid buildup. One or two just want a space to do some stretching.

Then Kinnunen comes through, talking low with Coach Tomlin. He looks so different out of his kit. He’s still a bear of a man, but he looks more approachable now, more human. The only time I saw him today was on the plane, and goodness gracious but does that man look fine in a suit. I mean, all the boys look great, but Ilmari rocks a sexy Viking mafia boss vibe that would melt anyone like butter. Too bad he has to be such a dick all the time.

Now he’s wearing the Rays warmup gear of shorts, tech shirt, and trainers. His hair is still wet from his shower, tied up in a top knot.

Setting my annoyance aside, I call out. “Hey Kinnunen, great game.”

“That last save torqued his left knee,” says Tomlin.

My eyes narrow immediately to his legs. His quads muscles are thick and well defined, wrapping around the top of his knees. I’ve already read his files thoroughly. Like most of these guys, his knees have taken a beating in his career. Several pulls in his hamstrings and ligaments. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has issues with his meniscus. You can’t do the constant range of motion a goalie does and not shred your meniscus bare.

“What’s the problem?”

“I dropped down too fast,” Kinnunen explains. “My angle was off, and my knee twisted.”

“Let’s take a look.”

He hops on the table, and I get to work, starting with a visual exam. No defined redness or swelling in either knee. I palpate his right knee first, looking for any tenderness or excessive heat. “Does this hurt?” I murmur, dropping to one knee as I glance up at him.

“No.”

I switch to the other knee and don’t see or feel any difference. I do a few standard range of motion tests on both knees and he doesn’t seem to be in any pain. “On a scale of 1-10, how bad was your pain out on the ice?”

“Six.”

I glance up again. “And now?”

“Three.”

I raise a brow. “And what’s your resting level of pain in these knees?”

His blue eyes flash but he conceals whatever he’s thinking. “Three,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”

I sigh, getting to my feet. “Well, I’m not feeling any obvious damage. Your range of motion is good. No heat or swelling yet, but we’ll keep a close eye on it,” I add for Tomlin, who is standing over his shoulder like a nervous mother hen. “If pain persists, we might need to get some scans—”

“No scans,” Kinnunen says. “I’ll ice it at the hotel. Coach is just overreacting.”

“We all just want you healthy and as pain free as possible,” I reply. “I don’t know if you know this, but you’re kind of a big deal.”

His face twitches into something that could almost be an emotion before he’s walking off. The press is chomping to hear a word from him about his shutout game.

It’s nearly eleven by the time we get to the airport and all settle onto the flight. I wouldn’t call my knee check a proper physical, but it was better than nothing. And I’m feeling generous, so I leave Ilmari to his precious seats in row 20, replaceing a seat a bit farther back next to Morrow, who is already dozing against the window.

I’ve got my head down, phone in hand, texting Tess photos from the game.

“What are you doing?”

I glance up sharply to see Kinnunen looking like a Viking billionaire, staring down at me. “What?”

“You have to sit with me.”

I swear to god, the only reason I believe he said those words out loud is because I watched his lips move. “Ilmari, what the—”

“Come,” he mutters, turning away.

“No thanks,” I call after him.

He turns, glaring at me. “This is your fault. You have to come. Quickly, before they make us sit for takeoff.”

My eyes widen as I glance from a confused Morrow back to the massive goalie. “What the hell are you talking about? You literally made me move on the last flight. You said row 20 is yours. You said I couldn’t sit next to you. So now what’s your damage?”

“You’re his lucky charm,” says Langley from across the narrow aisle, his eyes on his Nintendo Switch.

“His what?”

“Oh, shit—yeah,” says Morrow, shifting in his window seat. “Doc, you gotta go. Mars needs you.”

I cross my arms with a huff. “Will someone please explain this madness with the seats before I swear off sitting and stand for the whole dang flight?”

“You break it, you buy it, Doc,” says Langley with a shrug.

“Break what?”

“His pattern,” Morrow replies. “You broke his pattern by taking his seat and sitting in his row. No one sits with Mars. Not at meals, not on the bus. Definitely not on the plane. It’s his thing. Keeps him in the zone. You sat with him. You broke his pattern. And tonight, he played a shutout game.”

“So now he’s gotta know,” adds Langley, eyes still on his Mario Kart.

“Know what?”

“Maybe the shutout was a combo of his skill and bad shots on goal,” says Morrow.

“But maybe it was luck,” Langley adds.

“Maybe it was you breaking his pattern.”

I finally catch up with a tired groan. “Oh god, so this is like a can’t-wash-my-socks thing?” I glance up at Ilmari who is still just standing there, a frown on his handsome face.

“Pretty much,” Morrow replies. “Mars needs to know if you’re lucky. You gotta go sit with him.”

“Whoa—wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “What happens if we win tomorrow?” I look back up at Kinnunen. “What if it’s not a shutout? What if we lose? Then you’re gonna blame me, won’t you? It’ll be all my fault, your rotten, not-a-good-luck charm, right?”

“Pretty much,” says Langley. “You’re tough, Doc. You can handle it.”

“But you can’t sit here,” Morrow adds, giving me a little shove. “Sorry, Doc. Gotta keep the goalies happy.”

Muttering to myself, I snatch up my stuff again, rising out of my seat. I shuffle my way down the aisle towards Kinnunen. “Say, when I jump from this plane for you, will my backpack have a parachute? Just wanna know my chances of survival.”

He doesn’t reply, but I swear I see the faintest flicker of movement at the corner of his mouth as he turns away. I think that was Ilmari’s version of laughing.

I follow him down the aisle and we settle into row 20. Jake and Caleb are in their same seats too. Caleb already has his eyes closed, resting against the window, but Jake perks up. “Hey, Seattle. What are you—” His gaze darts between us as Mr. Surly next to me buckles himself in. “Ohhh.” He snorts. “So, you’re his lucky charm now, eh?”

I groan again, burying my tired face in my hands. Stupid superstitious hockey players!