Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)
Pucking Sweet: Chapter 4

My heart races as I skate into the corner, chasing after the puck. There’s only two minutes left in this exhibition game, and my team is winning—not that the points actually matter. We’re all just out here showing the coaches what we can do.

I beat Walsh to the puck, elbowing him into the boards. Then I slap the puck behind the net over to Novy and he bats it out of the corner. As one, we dig our toe blades into the ice, launching back toward the blue line.

Gripping my mouth guard between my teeth, I slide to a stop, surveying the action. Our forwards are clumped around the net, looking for one last score. Good luck. Mars Kinnunen is a two-time Stanley Cup-winning goalie. As I watch, he easily catches the puck in his glove, stopping the action. It gives me a moment to breathe and assess.

Hockey is a highly technical sport, which is why I love it so much. It’s about input and output. My body is my machine, and each input and output helps it to work at peak efficiency—nutrition, exercise, hydration, sleep. Everything is flowing today, and I’m feeling great. Muscle memory is good. My legs are strong. Lungs and heart are working in rhythm. My recovery time between shifts feels well-regulated. This is definitely the best I’ve felt in years, and it’s showing. I’ll be shocked if the coaches don’t start me.

The game ends, and Novy skates over to me, grinning around the blue mouth guard hanging out of his mouth. “If that doesn’t secure us starting spots, I don’t know what will.”

“Compton and J-Lo are skating well too,” I hedge, glancing to the bench where Jean-Luc Gerard, our most senior defenseman, is chatting with the equipment manager. Jake Compton skipped this game altogether, but he doesn’t have to worry. He’s flashy and strong and well worth the millions the Rays paid to trade him in.

“I bet they take second pair,” says Novy. “No way the coaches don’t pair us up. We’re dynamite together. Just like old times, eh?”

I shrug. Nothing is sure in this sport. I’m playing, and that’s all that matters. Whether I’m first pair or third, I know I’ll be on the ice for another season, and I’m grateful. “Hey, great assist,” I say. “That’s gotta feel good, eh? Scoring on Kinnunen?”

“Nah, Mars was distracted,” he replies. “Doesn’t count if the tendy lets you have it.”

“Well, you can guarantee the Canes won’t let us have a damn thing next week.”

I follow him off the ice and back to the dressing room. It’s noisy and high energy as we all get changed. Metallica blasts through the speakers as I shrug out of my gear, handing off the pieces that need to go to the laundry to one of the waiting EMs.

“Hey Sanny, where’s your DLP?” Novy calls from the stall next to me. The stall on the other side of him belongs to Compton. All his gear is stacked neatly inside, untouched.

Caleb Sanford, our assistant equipment manager, just shrugs, taking my practice jersey. “DLP” stands for “domestic life partner.” It’s what all the guys call Compton because of how close they are. “No idea,” he says. “He was supposed to be back from the DMV already.”

“Hey, we should all hang out this weekend,” says Novy. “Let’s grab dinner or something, celebrate the end of training camp.”

“The team is going to Rip’s tonight,” I reply.

“Yeah, I’m saying we should still celebrate,” Novy replies. “You know, just us?”

“Who’s us?” Davidson asks from the other side of me. He’s the backup goalie and he’s weird as fuck. The guy always eats these crunchy, everything-flavored bagel crisps, giving him permanent bagel breath.

“Not you, Dave-O, that’s for damn sure,” Novy replies. “This is a D-man only invite.”

“Sanny’s not a D-man,” Davidson says, unbuckling his pads.

“Yeah, but he’s Compton’s emotional support friend, so we gotta invite him to all the barbecues,” Novy replies, making Sanford smirk.

“He shouldn’t be on all the group chats either,” Davidson mutters.

Novy digs in. “Aw, you jealous there, bud? Well, how ’bout this: Prove you can grow a personality better than you can grow that lip lettuce on your face, and we’ll add you to the blue line group chat. Deal?”

Davidson glares at him before shuffling off.

I give Novy a wary look and he shrugs. He likes to joke, and he loves to chirp. But sometimes he doesn’t know where to replace the line, and he skates right over it into full asshole zone.

Most of us are in the changing room attached to the showers when Coach Andrews pops his head in. “I wanna see all the defensemen in my office before you leave,” he calls out. “Gerard, Compton, Novikov, Morrow, Hanner, Woodson—let’s go!”

“Compton’s not here,” says J-Lo.

“Find him,” Andrews shouts as he walks away.

The mood in the room quiets as we all glance at each other.

“Well, here we go, boys,” Novy says. “Moment of truth.” He claps Gerard on the naked shoulder. “J-Lo, no hard feelings if I take the left-side starting spot over you, eh?”

Gerard tugs on a shirt and punches Novy in the arm. Novy just laughs, leading the way out of the room. We run into Paulie and Woody in the hallway. Once we enter Andrews’ office, I see Compton is already there, leaning against the desk. He’s smiling from ear to ear.

“What the hell happened to you?” J-Lo asks.

Compton spreads his arms wide. “Just call me Buddy the Elf because I’m in love, and I don’t care who knows it.”

Gerard sinks into the chair by the door. “Lord, help us.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already fallen for Hot Doc,” Novy says, perching his ass on the arm of Gerard’s chair.

“Oh no. What happened to the girl from Seattle?” Woody asks, snagging the other chair.

Compton mimes zipping his lips, his eyes flashing with barely contained glee.

“Bud, wake up,” Novy says at Woody. “The Seattle girl was fictional.”

Compton bristles. “She wasn’t fictional, asshole.”

“Yeah, I gotta admit, that always sounded a bit too good to be true,” says Paulie. “It’s good you’re moving on, man.” He pats Compton consolingly on the back.

“Wait—who’s Hot Dog?” Gerard asks.

“Hot Doc,” Novy corrects. Leaning in, he cups Gerard’s ear with his hand and shouts. “Doc, as in doctor. Jeezus, J-Lo, get a hearing aid there, bud.”

“The new Barkley Fellow,” I add over the guys’ laughter. Then they all start talking at once.

“She’s a total babe—”

“Did you see her tattoos?”

“Hey, asshole, she’s a doctor. She’s our doctor now—”

“Is she married?”

“I thought she was a physical therapist—”

“She’s a smoke show,” Novy says, leaning around me to show Woody a picture of her he snapped on his phone earlier.

Woody’s eyes go wide. “Whoa.”

Paulie leans in too. “Okay, yeah…ten outta ten. Do we know, is she seeing anyone?”

Compton snatches Novy’s phone. “Dude, stop taking pictures of our doctor.”

“She wasn’t our doc yet,” he teases. “She was just ‘woman at coffee cart.’”

“Well, now she is and you’re gonna knock it off,” Compton warns. “And I’m deleting these.”

“Easy there, Jakey.” Novy snatches back his phone. “She doesn’t need you playing bodyguard. Besides, she’s so far out of your league—”

“Let me know when you’re all done playing Gossip Girl,” Coach Andrews calls from behind his desk. “Then maybe I can tell you who’s gonna start this season.”

That settles us down real quick. We all look to Coach and wait.

He stands behind his desk, hands pressed flat to the surface. “Right, fellas, here’s how it’s gonna be. Hanner and Woodson, you’re paired third.”

They look to each other and give a curt nod. Paulie makes a great grinder, and Woody is a useful enforcer. Solid players, both. I certainly won’t complain when it’s time for a shift change.

“As for you four,” Coach goes on, gesturing between the rest of us. “Look, we all know the Rays are still in a period of settling—”

“Oh shit.” Novy’s mask of humor flickers.

“I don’t want any bruised egos here, guys,” Coach says. “You’ll all be getting plenty of ice time. And no one is getting punished here,” he adds, looking directly at Novy. “We’re just not locking down the first and second pairs quite yet—”

“But someone’s gonna start next week,” says Novy.

Coach nods. “For game one next week, we want to see Gerard and Morrow on the ice first. Compton and Novy, that makes you second pair.”

Holy shit, I’m starting. In the first game the Jacksonville Rays play in the NHL, Colton Morrow, the Black kid from Canada who everyone bet against will be the starting right-side defender. Given what’s it taken for me to reach this point, I can’t help but smile…and send up a little prayer of thanks.

Gerard reaches around Novy to pat my arm. “First on the ice. We’ll make a great team, eh?”

Compton crosses the room to his hand outstretched for me to shake. “Well done, Morrow. Between you, me, and Paulie, we’ll have a strong right side this season. Let’s leave it to these other assholes to pull their weight on the left.”

“That’s the team spirit I’m looking for,” Coach says. “Now, make sure to check in with PT before you leave for the day. Good work this week, boys.”

I shake Compton’s hand, making room for Paulie and Woody to step out behind me. “You sure there’s no hard feelings?”

“None at all,” Compton replies. “Hey, let’s celebrate. We’ll let Cay pick the dive, and I’ll take the check. Nov, you’re coming too.”

Novy just shrugs.

“Gotta count me out, boys,” says Gerard. “The missus and I have plans this weekend. Last little getaway before the season starts.”

“We never counted you in,” Compton teases. Then he drops my hand. “Right, fellas. I’ll have Cay send a message in the group chat with the time and place for dinner. Let’s make it Sunday. For now, I gotta go see a girl about a number.” He ducks away without a backward glance.

Coach Andrews follows him out, leaving his office door wide open.

I look to Novy. “Hey…you good?”

Novy stands, flashing me a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Always.”

I don’t even realize I’m reaching for him, but my hand brushes his shoulder. “Hey, man, you know you don’t have to—”

“Cole, I said I’m good,” he says, shrugging away from my touch.

His use of my name has me dropping my hand to my side. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say it, even when we played together.

“Come on, let’s get outta here.” He ducks around me. “Hey, wanna help me pull a prank on the new Hot Doc?”

I follow him into the hallway. “What kind of prank?”

He fishes his phone from his pocket. “How hard do you think it would be to rent an inflatable ball pit on short notice?”

I pause in my steps, looking at the back of his head. “Do you really wanna get fired that bad, Nov? You just got here.”

He laughs, eyes still on his phone. “We can’t let Compton have all the fun. Let’s go see a girl about a number.”

I laugh, shaking my head. This is the Lukas Novikov I remember from my days on the Thunderbirds: Prankster, chirper, competitive asshole, constantly wheeling multiple girls at once.

It’s oddly comforting to know some people really do never change.