Pucking Strong: An MM Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 4)

I forgot how exciting it is to be behind the scenes on game day. The energy below the stands is just as electric as above. Everyone hurries around, setting the stage for the first intermission with snacks, electrolytes, fresh sticks and blades. Some of the players have quirky habits where they change their gloves or skate laces between every period. Lindberg likes to slurp on a jar of pickle juice. Some of the defensemen swear by mustard shots. They down packets of Heinz yellow mustard like they’re tonic shots. It’s revolting.

Thank god Henrik’s only habit is his obsession with some obscure Swedish sock brand. They make the only socks he’ll ever wear with his skates. I snort, remembering how I was ready to judge Roshni for doing the same thing. Maybe everyone involved with hockey has to be just a little bit weird.

Maybe that’s why I feel so welcome.

In the last seconds of the first period, the game is tied at one point each. Chicago got a lucky score within the first three minutes, which set a rather ominous tone. But a brilliant shot by Langley brought us back even, renewing the fans’ spirits. The buzzer sounds, ending the period.

“Here they come,” someone shouts.

It’s pandemonium as all the guys come rushing in off the ice. I work with the other PTs to do a quick round of check-ins. We assess each guy for any aches or pains they need addressed. Jake took a hard hit into the boards, but he has no complaints. And Henrik took a stick to the side of the face.

I pat his thick shoulder pad. “Hey, babe, you okay?”

He glances up, his hair wet with sweat. His temple looks slightly pink and puffy, but there’s no broken skin. “I’m fine, mitt hjärta.” He snakes his arm around me, pulling me closer.

“Hey, hey,” Langley teases. “None of that now, boys.”

“Great score,” I tell him.

“Someone had to,” Henrik mutters. He’s had three shots on goal, all caught in the goalie’s glove.

“You’ll get one in,” Langley assures him, taking a crunch out of an apple.

“Let’s go, Ted! We need you!”

Henrik drops his arm from my waist, but I can’t help brushing my fingers through his sweaty hair as I race away, ducking back into the PT room to help some of the guys limber up for the next period. I’m finishing with DJ Perry when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I open a new message from Brad and almost retch. “Oh god—”

It’s a picture of Dylan’s elbow injury.

DJ peers over my shoulder. “Whoa. That’s gnarly.”

I grimace. “Yeah.”

“Is that Dyl?”

“Yep.”

My phone pings with another message.

“Well, duh,” says Novy from my other shoulder. “The guy’s got no skin left.”

One of the forwards, Flash, steps in next to him. “What are y’all looking at?”

From there, my phone gets passed around to every person in the PT room, each one exclaiming in disgust and surprise at the state of Dylan’s injury.

“He could be an extra on The Walking Dead,” Paulie mutters.

Jake just waves his hands, leaning away from the phone. “No way. I don’t wanna see that shit.”

Caleb takes a look, then hands the phone to Henrik as he appears in the doorway, kitted up and ready except for his gloves and helmet. The others are all talking and moving around, so I don’t hear it when my phone pings with a new message.

I definitely hear it when Henrik glares at me from across the room and says, “Who the hell is Fish Lips?”