Page 39 of Pucking Forbidden

I hang up as I pull into the stadium parking lot, which is already half-full, headlights cutting through the dim light as more guys pull in. Engines idle, doors slam. A couple of guys shout half-hearted greetings across the rows.

Carson’s leaning against his truck, his oversized gray hoodie pulled up over his ears and a giant, steaming travel mug of coffee in his hand. The second he spots me stepping out of my truck, he lifts the mug in a mock salute, the steam clouding up around his face.

“Jesus, Wilder. You look like you just went five rounds with a Zamboni and lost.”

“And you look like a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little princess,” I shoot back, slamming my truck door shut and slinging my heavy gear bag over my shoulder. “Did you remember to brush your teeth this morning, or are we dealing with the garbage-disposal breath during line rushes again?”

“Fuck you, man,” he mumbles, pushing off the truck with a heavy, dramatic groan that suggests moving his limbs is a medical miracle. “I hate early morning practice. My left knee doesn’t even wake up until eleven o’clock.”

“Oh, poor baby,” I chuckle, falling into step beside him as we trudge toward the player entrance. “Should I call Skyler and see if they can get you a heated blanket and a juice box for the bench?”

“Keep laughing, tough guy,” Carson grunts, taking a massive gulp of his coffee. “But when I deliberately miss you on a breakaway pass later because my fingers are frozen solid, don’t come crying to me.”

“Please. Your passes miss me even when it's eighty degrees out,” I counter, nudging his shoulder with my elbow as we walk toward the entrance. “At least getting on the ice will warm us up. Get the legs burning early.”

“True,” he sighs, his breath hitching in a pale cloud as he yanks open the heavy steel door to the rink, the familiar, freezing blast of chilled air hitting our faces.

We walk in together, the cold clinging for a second before the doors shut behind us. Inside, it’s warmer, thank God. I can hear the heating system clunking along the vents in the ceiling. The hallway smells like rubber, stale coffee, and something faintly chemical from the cleaning crew as we make our way to the locker room. It’s familiar and comforting.

“Morning, boys,” one of the equipment guys calls as we pass.

“Morning,” Carson answers.

I lift a hand in acknowledgment.

When we reach the locker room, it’s full and lively as the guys get ready to hit the ice. Conversations overlap, benches scrape along the floor, and lockers slam open and shut. Music plays low from someone’s speaker in the corner. I pinch the bridge of my nose and push back my irritation. It’s too early for this much stimulation.

Jensen’s already there, sitting on the bench in front of his locker with one skate half-laced, scrolling through his phone.

He glances up when we walk in. “Look who decided to show up.”

“We’re not late,” I grumble, dropping my bag with a dull thud. “You’re just too damn early.”

“Time is a social construct,” Carson mutters, moving to his own locker.

Jensen snorts. “That’s your excuse now?”

“It’s true,” Carson shrugs. “Besides, Jayce, Zander, and Owen aren’t here either.”

“Owen’s already down at PT getting wrapped,” Jensen explains. “Jayce is out on the rink already getting the equipment set up for drills.”

“Ah.” Carson presses his lips together, a devious glint appearing in his eyes. “Getting wrapped, huh? Is that what he and Stacey call it now? Kinky.”

“He’s gotta get his special massage,” I chuckle.

The heavy locker room door swings open. Zander trudges in, looking less like a pro athlete and more like he just lost a fight with a very small, very angry blender. He’s got a fresh, angry red scratch blooming across his forearm, and his expression is one of pure, defeated saltiness.

“Let me guess,” Carson cackles, pointing at the wound. “Gizmo decided you didn't need that top layer of skin?”

“I was just trying to give him a treat,” Zander mutters, slamming his locker shut. “I don’t get it. He loves Ciara as much as he loves Rylee, but I’m pretty sure that cat is a sleeper agent sent to take me out from the inside. He’s got it out for me, man.”

“Maybe stop smelling like old fish,” Jensen suggests with a grin. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, dude, but that new cologne of yours? You smell like the ocean.”

Zander scowls. “Rylee loves that cologne.”

“Well, your girl is delusional,” Carson cackles. “And your cat is homicidal.”

I shake my head, pulling out my gear to get dressed.