Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection) by A.M. Johnson

Author:A.M. Johnson [Johnson, A.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A.M. Johnson Books
Published: 2018-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

When you scored first in a game, played two periods without letting the other team sink one shot, you’d think your team could hold their shit together for one more period. My ass hit the leather of the plane seat and I groaned. Every single muscle hurt. I’d have fared better if I’d been run through a meat grinder. I had a bruise the size of fucking Alaska forming on my hip from a hit I’d taken by a mean-as-hell blue liner who’d had his eye on me all night. The moment I’d stolen that first goal, I had a target on my back. But for all their aggression, Vegas couldn’t get the W. We had, thank Christ. Three to two in overtime. Vegas had pulled a penalty leaving them shorthanded. Slashing. At the time, I’d thought Bryson was milking his “injury.” But afterward in the locker room, he’d held up his mangled and bruised looking thumb like a trophy. The trainer had said he’d only jammed it, but it’d won us a power play and the game.

I ran a hand through my hair as I pulled my phone from my bag and switched it on. Mandatory post-game media, shower, and a quick turnaround left no time for phone calls. We were on our way to California to play San Jose tomorrow night, and as banged up as we were, I wondered what the morning skate would predict.

My phone was powering up too slowly. It hadn’t mattered how shitfaced tired I’d felt, the moment the final buzzer rang, Stevie had been the first thing I’d thought of. She’d told me this morning she might not have a chance to watch the game because she was having dinner at her mom’s. Call me superstitious, but I’d let a ribbon of worry tangle with my laces tonight. The last time she’d watched I’d scored a hatty. I kind of liked her eyes on my ice, whether it was at home or on the road. It was stupid, yet no more stupid than Karlsson’s special brand of tape he had to use every game, or Vasiliev’s blue laces. We all had our kinks.

My smile crawled across my face as Stevie’s missed messages popped up. I heard Bryson snicker from the row in front of me, and I raised my head and laughed at his shirtless chest.

“Always late to the bus and to the plane,” I said.

He shrugged and then slipped his right arm into a crisp white button-down. “Whatever.” He lifted his chin. “Did she watch?”

Bryson was the only guy on the team who knew about my new Stevie superstition.

I opened up her messages, my eyes going wide before I quickly clicked out of the app.

Holy God.

“Was that—”

“Sit the fuck down already, Jensen. Shit.” I almost growled, but it held no real irritation. My smile was too big, my cheeks and neck too hot.

She’d sent me a dirty picture, and I wished to God I was alone. I wanted to stare at it and.

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