Shutout | Complete

Chapter 17

A cloud of condensation passed my lips as I sat in Hendrix's practice the next morning. I didn't know if someone had messed with the temperature or if it was due to my lack of sleep, but York arena felt colder that morning. The chilled air bit at my cheeks and I sank lower into my chair. I hugged myself tighter, Hendrix's woven blanket draped across my lap.

Shouting came from the pad of ice below. The Falcons were in the middle of a scrimmage, practicing drills they had covered in the first half of the hour-long session. Their skates carved into the ice. The frozen surface was marked with delicate designs. I mindlessly followed the puck. On a regular day, I would have been much more invested in what drills the team was trying out, but on this particular morning I was too tired to care.

I rested my head in my hand. Exhaustion ebbed into my vision as I fought to keep my eyes open. Did the good luck charm powers still work if I took a nap? Surely me being there in the arena was more than enough. Wishing I was curled up in bed, I let out a sigh. I wasn't too sure how intense Hendrix's superstitious beliefs were, but I decided it was best not to test them.

My heavy lidded eyes drifted to the far right of the rink. Hendrix stood in net, ready for the charge of players that had entered his zone. Last night was a toe curling dream. Sex with Hendrix was both nothing and everything I expected it to be at the same time. I knew it was going to be good--I had no doubts a man like Hendrix was going to have me seeing stars. There was a quiet confidence about him. He knew what was doing. The light bondage, however, was a pleasant surprise.

I rolled my lips into my mouth as I remembered the leather of his belt against my wrists. The mix of pain and pleasure was something I didn't realize I would enjoy. I couldn't decide which was more surprising; that I like it or that Hendrix did. But, as I was beginning to figure out, the Falcon's goalie was full of surprises.

The shriek of the coach's whistle cut through the arena. He barked a string of orders and the players began to make their way towards the changerooms. Hendrix unclipped the straps on his helmet before pulling it off of his head. He fixed his grip on his stick, shifting to hold his helmet in the same hand. His hair was dark and damp with sweat. I didn't know how he was able to function off of the little amount of sleep he got. While it sucks I had to drag my sorry ass out of bed, at least I had the luxury of sitting in the stands.

He flashed me a thumbs up and I returned it. My heart warmed. This was becoming our new little ritual after every practice. Sometimes it was the smallest things that meant the most. Liam almost never acknowledged me at his practices. Even after leaving the changerooms, sometimes he'd be so lost in conversation with his teammates that he wouldn't even speak to me until we got to his car.

While I reminded myself that I shouldn't compare the two, it was becoming harder and harder not to.

When Hendrix stepped off the ice, I decided it was time to head out to the main area of the rink before the tip of my nose fell off from frostbite.

With Hendrix's blank folded over my arms, I made my way down from the stands. The echo of my boots hitting the concrete floor was the only thing that could be heard. Not even the Zamboni driver had made his way onto the ice yet. I was on the last short flight of steps when the arena doors swung open.

Liam showed up on the other side. Damp locks clung to his forehead and I wondered if he had run out of the shower or skipped that step all together. He was sporting the Falcon's black tracksuit, a hockey bag thrown over his shoulder. He still looked like the high school boy I fell in love with. For a moment, it felt like we were teenagers again–like having deja vu.

"Ella," he greeted me, tone rushed. "We need to talk."

The authority in his voice shoved me back to reality. Stubbornness wrapped me up, acting as my armor as I stalked in his direction. It was clear he was determined to catch me before the rest of the team–more specifically Hendrix–emerged from the changerooms.