Body Check (Blades Hockey, #4)

by Maria Luis

And then the four-year-old ring bearer seals Andre Beaumont’s sinner status for good. Thrusting one little arm up in the air as Andre releases Zoe and steps back, the kid shouts, “Mommy! Mommy, Mr. Beaumont has a sword in his pants! I want one that big!”

Seeing Jackson in his element does funny things to my stomach and inevitably leads to devouring a gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream in a single sitting. It’s not a pretty sight to behold.

And it cost you everything, didn’t it? My lids fall shut, and I rock back on my heels as though experiencing the blow of my failed marriage all over again. Where’s Ben & Jerry when you need them?

Welcome to the Culinary House of Carter: Yelp Rated, 1.7-stars.

Never let it be said that I don’t have Holly’s best interests at heart.

Holly’s short and the stool is tall, and I don’t bother to hide a grin when she tries to primly hop up—and subsequently bounces right off.

pops the bite into her mouth, not an inkling of dread underlining her expression. I steel my shoulders and bide my time by taking a pull from my water bottle. Count down the seconds in my head like a ticking time bomb until she realizes she made a grave error in ignoring the peace offering that came in the form of Heinz ketchup. One . . . Two . . . A gurgling sound rumbles in her throat as utensils clatter to the granite. Hands lifting to her collarbone, she coughs like she’s just inhaled her very first cigarette. “Holy cr—” She barely gets the words out before erupting into a coughing fit so volatile I’m surprised the windows don’t rattle. Because I’m a gentleman, I uncap my water bottle and silently hand it over. Then I make a point to s-l-o-w-l-y swirl my next piece of chicken through a puddle of BBQ sauce. Her color high, she eyes me like she’s seconds away from stealing my fork and stabbing me with the tines.

I smile, just a little. “I promise that it wasn’t my plan to avoid talking about Getting Pucked by killin’ you.”

At Andre Beaumont’s dry tone, I crane my neck to stare up at the Garden’s ceiling, hundreds of feet above the ice. Cupping my helmet between my hands, I lift it to my chest like a hockey version of a rosary bead, and mock-pray, “God, give me strength to not take this man’s hockey stick and shove it so far up his ass, he’ll be waddling for weeks.” A minute pause. “Amen.”

The NHL’s top enforcer blinds me with a rare grin. “Boston feeds the darkness of my soul—I can’t stop the assholery the minute I come back, any more than you can stop being a prick twenty-four-seven.”

“Make sure your dicks are in your cups, gentlemen, we’ve got a visitor!” At Coach Hall’s half-assed joke, my teammates grumble loudly about wanting the opportunity to let their dicks fly free, but everyone laughs, and no one takes offense, least of all my ex-wife.

“Put them away,” she says now, mock-shielding her eyes, “I don’t need to see any of y’all’s micro-penises, trust me.” “Having flashbacks to Carter’s small dick?” shouts an asshole from the opposite corner of the locker room. Let me repeat: Beast of the Northeast. Suffice as it is to say, the guys know I don’t put up with Holly being dragged into their gutter talk. Not when we were married; not now either. Josh Kammer, as a rookie, hasn’t been dealt that lesson yet. I tilt my head in his direction, my hands hanging loosely between my knees. “Josh?” Beside me, Duke mutters “here we go” under his breath. “Yeah, Cap?” the rookie left-wing asks blithely. “Do me a favor and meet me an hour before practice tomorrow, will you?” The vets on the team all trade glances, and I don’t even bother to stand and get a good look at the kid. They all know I’m about to make his life hell tomorrow. I like to think of it as a rite of passage to learning how not to be a dick. And if he’s curled over a trash can after our one-on-one workout, heaving out his guts, because he’s had a miraculous understanding that playing for The Show means more than just putting on the uniform, then I’ll have done my job right. Respect. Ambition. Teamwork.

“They’re getting us blow jobs?” There’s a smack on the head, and then our star center, Marshall Hunt, grunts out, “Use your brain, Kammer, or I’ll make sure the only blow job you get for the rest of your life comes from a flushlight.”

Not when her Southern drawl rings loud and clear in the locker room: “I want all of those things, too, Coach. I’m already dreaming of taking pictures of y’all with the Cup.” That earns her a roar of applause and even Kammer the Idiot hollers, “Fuck yeah, Mrs. Carter. Fuck yeah!” She’s not Mrs. Carter, not anymore, but she smiles kindly at him anyway because that’s the sort of person she is. “I want more than that, though. I know y’all—I know your families and your wives and your kids and, hell, Henri, I even know your mother and she doesn’t even live in the States!” Henri Bordeaux, our resident French-Canadian from Montreal, waves at her enthusiastically. Holly waves back,

“You want the truth, Captain?” I lower my voice, fury lacing every word. “The truth is that no matter how much I wish I could toss you to the wolves and not care, I can’t do that. Your words got to me, I admit it. They got to me so damn badly that I pulled out our wedding album and realized that, for better or worse, I can’t walk away from you when I should—when it’s in my best interest to lay down the sword and get the hell out of dodge. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.” His lips part on a sharp breath. “Holls—” “Don’t touch me.” Don’t touch me or I’ll shatter. I yank open the door with more force than necessary. “You want to know if I regret taking on Getting Pucked?” I shake my head, my hair catching on my chin. I shove the strands back with a rough, shaky hand. “I don’t regret working with the Blades. I don’t regret turning down that six-figure check. But I regret that even after all this time, I can’t tell you no.” I don’t wait for him to say my name or plead his case before bolting out the door.

His fingers wrap around the sharp, plastic edges, his dark eyes flitting down before zeroing in on my face. “Masturbation in the bathroom won’t get you into the Mile High Club, Carter. Plus, no one on this plane wants to sleep with you.” Cain chokes on a boisterous laugh when I narrow my eyes at him. To Andre, I drawl, “That’s not what you were telling me before Zoe entered the picture.” Pure. Silence. Beaumont lasts a total of four seconds before his neutral expression cracks and he’s bent over the board game, laughing so hard that heads swivel in our direction to see what’s going on. Including Holly’s.

She looks fresh-faced and young, and I’m momentarily hit with memory after memory of waking up to her beside me in bed, her face smashed in the pillow, one arm splayed across my face. I can’t count the number of mornings I’ve woken her up by nipping at her arm, after being almost smothered by its weight in my sleep.

Sometimes romance isn’t cuddle sessions and lingerie—it’s clinging to the edge of the mattress and praying you don’t topple over when your wife decides to hog the entire bed.

“Jackson?” I slide the blind down over the oval window, blocking out the sights of Logan International Airport and eclipsing my two seats in relative darkness. “Open up the rest of your peace offerings, Holls. I want to see your face.”

Matt’s smooth voice echoes over the speakers: “Hello, my dear Blades. So good to see you all again! It’s been too long.” A chorus of male voices rise up behind me: “We missed you, Hard-Ass!” “It’s been months, man! You been laid yet?” “Matt, what’ll I have to pay to exchange the shitty crackers you’re about to give me for a big, juicy steak?” There’s a strangled chuckle, and then, “Mr. Harrison, I’ve missed you too. Mr. Hartwell, that answer is between me and my nonexistent partner, thank you very much. And, Mr. Cain, you’ll eat the crackers and you’ll like it.” The sounds of masculine groaning at the back of the plane makes me grin. This back-and-forth ribbing has run rampant for years now. Luckily, Matt knows how to hold his own. Something he proves when he adds, “You all know that I won’t be repeating myself when I say, if I catch any of you watching porn on this flight, I’ll kick you off while flying thirty-thousand feet in the air. No parachute. Your fans will be disappointed—don’t test me. Our travel time is a few minutes shy of three hours, and we’ll have you ready for the Predators by 8 a.m. Sit back and enjoy, gents. It’s good to see you again for another season.”

We aren’t married, not anymore. But I won’t forget what you’re doing for me, Holly. I needed this and I needed you. When you need me next, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re family, even if it’s not the way we always envisioned, and I learned a long time ago to never take family for granted. Jackson.

We’re family.

He knows how much that F-word means to me, and I hate him for utilizing it now and for bending my steel resolve.

If there wasn’t an official end date to the madness, I’d be concerned that Getting Pucked is a bit like contracting herpes—once you’re infected, it’s yours for life.

Talk about a massacre on the ice—but instead of entrails being swept up by the Zamboni after the game, there are hats and towels.

“Want to grab celebratory wings and beer with the guys?” I glance back at Harrison. “It’s not really a celebration when the opposing team played it safe and kept their first line off the ice. We both know you let that last snipe in.” “I felt bad. Their rookies were slow as hell.” His mouth quirks up. “I sure as fuck won’t be lenient the next time we see them. Let’s just say that I did it for rookie encouragement.” “What a giver,” I drawl, cracking a grin as the pressure eases off my chest. “My girl tells me the same thing in bed.” With a wink, he steers me toward his stall with a hand to my shoulder, so he can change out of his gear and into street clothes. “I’m hoping she’ll be saying the same thing when I pop the question.”

“If Charlie tells you to screw off when you get on one knee, it’s because your ego is the size of Texas.” “So’s my dick.” I roll my eyes. “Fat and squat, then? Lucky lady.” “What’s fat and squat?” Hunt asks as he approaches us, his duffel—like Harrison’s—hiked over one shoulder. “Harrison’s dick.” Hunt grins wickedly. “You in the fat-and-squat-cock club, buddy?” He lifts a hand, palm out. “Give it, here, my man. It’s a party of one—you’re the first to join.” Harrison throws out a fist and punches our center in the arm. “Asshole.”

“You need to get the nerves out of your system while it’s preseason because if you pull this shit during an actual game, you’ll find yourself on the farm team so fast you won’t even know what happened. This is our year to win the Cup, and you’re either leading the pack with your line or you’re the anchor around our neck that we need to cut loose. Which one is it going to be?” “I want to be a part of the pack, Cap.” “Then go back to the hotel and find tonight’s game online. Analyze every time you screwed up and be prepared to tell me everythin’ you did wrong when we’re back at practice in two days.”

Either she had plans afterward and took a cab or she simply wanted to avoid me after I gave her my peace offering on the plane. I don’t let either option bother me. Captain. Babysitter. Hard-ass. Nowhere on that list is “husband.” What she does in her spare time is not my business, and I’d be smart to do as I preach. Eyes on the Cup. Heart in the game. But I’d be lying to myself if I said that I don’t search for her in the hotel lobby when I make my way inside. Or that, when I come up empty, disappointment sinks into my bones.

I grin at Carmen’s teasing. “Just think, maybe if Sports 24/7 had approached us months ago like they did for the rest of the team, we could have told Adam to strap up one last time to keep the little guys from zipping to ground zero.” Carmen doesn’t even bat an eye. “We’re talking about his sperm now, aren’t we?” With the heavy weight on my back, I can’t even roll my shoulders in a shrug. “More like we’re talking about him deciding the wrong time to have sex. He should have waited for a full moon or the sign of a new zodiac or—” “Waiting on an astrological sign to decide when to forego the condom? I know why I’m childless, but now it all makes sense for you.”

The bartender slides me a small, flirty smile. “Can I see your ID, miss? Just gotta check to see that you’re of legal age.” He leans in, his blue eyes locked on my face and that flirtatious grin still playing at his lips. “Don’t need you stumbling your way back to your room after living so dangerously with your drink of choice.”

He couldn’t be more accurate, especially given the way that Jackson straightens his back. With a growl that widens my gaze, he snaps, “She’s knocking on social security’s door, she’s so old. Get her the damn tea before she expires and we’re debatin’ between a coffin or cremation.”

“Just think of it like . . .” Holly’s fingers tap on her thigh. “Ah, I got it. Just think of it like God’s coming down to judge you for all your sins.” I bark out a laugh. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” “I’m rarely in the hot seat, but I figure that if I were, it’d be a bit like confession.” Her voice drops to a playful cadence. “Tell me all of the things, Captain Carter.”

“All I remember is my dad shouting, “oh, hell,” and then the next minute it was raining down old-fashioned glass Christmas lights and Playboy magazines.” I watch as her blue eyes go wide and her cheeks, even with the glare of the lights we’ve set, turn pink. She’s biting down so hard on her lower lip that I’m surprised she doesn’t draw blood. “Jackson,” she manages to work out in between gusts of laughter, “oh, my God.” “Trust me,” I mutter, enjoying her joy way too much for my own good, “God wouldn’t have wanted any part of that scene. I don’t know which one of us was more embarrassed—my dad as he stared down at me hopping around, trying to avoid shattered glass and old-as-fuck magazines, or me, when I realized that everywhere I looked were breasts.” “Looks like Santa came early that year.”

The reality of our situation crashes down on me like tons—literal tons—being heaped on my shoulders. The reality of our situation is that we tried to meet in the middle and failed. The reality of our situation is that she deserves more than a man who prioritized hockey over everything else in his life. Funny how, when it comes to hockey, I’m the force no one wants to reckon with, but with my own wife, I broke the second she looked at me from across the table at our favorite restaurant and said, “We need to talk.” Fact is, I’m that pathetic sack of shit who let Holly slip through my fingers. She didn’t leap for joy when I mentioned divorce, but she sure as hell didn’t deny that maybe it was for the best, that maybe we’d simply grown apart. You can’t “grow apart” from somebody when they’ve got your heart in a vice. At least, that’s how it’s always felt for me, even now.

“The thing is,” Shelby is saying now, “you want to open your mouth a little more for the moan. Like, make your cheeks all hollow and don’t forget to flare your nostrils maybe a half-centimeter or something, just for show.” When she demonstrates, I don’t even bother to pay her any attention. She’s a boss when it comes to administrative work, but I’ll be dead before I start taking advice about how to look in the throes of orgasm from an actress. Who also just so happens to be a virgin. I may be in a years’ long dry spell, but at least I’ve done the deed before, thank you very much.

My gaze leaps to the TV as the male narrator announces, “You think you know us, but you haven’t seen us like this before. For the next two hours, I’ll be taking you behind the scenes with the Boston Blades. We’re the NHL’s biggest threat . . . but only if we can work together to take the Cup home at the end of the season.” Hold on . . . I don’t even have the chance to say a word before one of my photographers, Maisey, shouts, “Wait, hold the goddamn phone. Was that Jackson doing the voiceover?”

“Phone,” Carmen says at my side, dropping my cell into my lap. “You might want to look at it.” I glance down, heart rate spiking at the name on the glass screen. Jackson: I’m sorry in advance. He’s sorry? What the hell does that mean? I mean, logistically, there are a lot of things he could be sorry for, starting with the two of us and ending with apologizing for who the hell knows what. Swiping my thumb across the screen to unlock the phone, I tap on my ex-husband’s text message and am promptly bombarded with text after text. Beaumont: Carter, man, did you add her? Harrison: Seconding that. You added Holly to Safe Space, right? Jackson: She’s in. Bless her heart. Hunt: Holly!!!! Welcome! Harrison: Hunt, dude, we agreed to let Carter roll out the proverbial red carpet. Wait your turn. Unknown Number: She hasn’t said anything yet…you think we scared her off? Unknown Number: If we did, I blame Kammer. Unknown Number: What the fuck, Cain?? I didn’t do shit. Calm your tits. Unknown Number: My tits are calm, asshole. Stop looking at them. Unknown Number: I’m not even in the same building as you!! Unknown Number: Stop thinking about them, then. Beaumont: Children, behave—before I take my stick and shove it where the sun don’t shine. Hunt: This conversation went downhill so fast.

Jackson: Cain, calm your tits. Kammer, stop being a bitch. Beaumont, for fuck’s sake, man, leave the stick talk to your wife or on the ice. Harrison: Guys, show just started. Beaumont: Holy shit, Carter, you sound like a frog. Scratch that, you sound like you swallowed a dick. Unknown Number: What size dick? Hunt: Medium. Not girthy. Big, fat head though. Wicked veiny. Jackson: Y’all are a bunch of idiots. Also, can we PLEASE watch the language now that y’all begged me to add Holly? Unknown Number: Oh, shit, I forgot already. Sorry Holly! Unknown Number: Sorry Holly Bordeaux: I miss everything, yes?

One day, I tell myself, one day that’ll all just stop. Because if I’m forced to spend the rest of my life lusting after my ex-husband’s voice, I’m calling it right now: in a previous life, I must have screwed someone over real bad. Worse than a burger in a recycling bin. What other reason would I have to pay this sort of penance now?

Harrison: Holly? Are you there? Did we scare you off? Beaumont: Pretty sure that Jackson can take the blame for that one. Him and his clogged throat on TV. Hunt: Look at that massive forehead. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Andre—you park cars on that thing??? Unknown Number: Park or pahk the cah? Hunt: The rookie thinks he’s got Boston jokes. Unknown Number: I DO have jokes. Hunt: How’s this for a joke, Kammer? Me, you, at dawn, pisto Unknown Number: Pisto? Is that a new pasta sauce? Hunt: No, it’s called my wife asking me to let the dog out and I couldn’t threaten you and be a good dog-dad all at once. Unknown Number: #whipped Beaumont: #dontbejealousrookie Unknown Number: I don’t know about Kammer, but I’m jealous about the dog. I need a new apartment that allows animals. Harrison: Anyone notice that Jackson has disappeared and Holly has yet to comment? Unknown Number: Maybe she muted us. Hunt: I noticed. Bordeaux: I notice. Beaumont: Bets, right now, that they’re on the phone. Harrison: Ten bucks. Beaumont: Cheap bastard. Hunt: Fifty.

I clap my hand down on Cain’s shoulder and offer him a blasé grin. “Got it. No more trying out for The Walking Dead. That I can handle.” His blond brows knit together. “And eye on the prize, right? No fucking around with Holly when the two of you are finally getting your shit together and acting like normal, non-lovesick people.” “Oh yeah.” Lie, lie, and lie some more—pretty sure I picked that up from a former teammate. “We lost our heads. Sometimes shit happens, y’know? Anyway, it won’t be happenin’ again. My dick can promise that.” Cain’s expression relaxes. “Your dick’s making promises now? Should I ask it—” “No.” “But the Beast has got to have a say in—” I give his shoulder a shove. “My dick would like to be left out of this narrative, thanks.” The door to my right opens and Beaumont’s head pops out. “What’s this about Cap’s dick?”

Jesus Christ, they’re like goddamn grandmothers on this team, always nosily eavesdropping. The least they could do is bring me snacks before breaking out the claws. Pointing at Andre, I grind out, “Shut it. We’ve reached the end of this talk and I’m going to bed.”

inch back toward my hotel room, thankful, at least, that us veterans are given our own rooms during away games. If I had to put up with any of these pricks for the next eight to nine hours, I’d smother them in their sleep and then send their families a gift card to the Olive Garden.

Sometimes I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else.

I’ve never been a religious man . . . but that’s never stopped me from kneeling at the altar of Holly.

I want that again—the love, the knowledge that I’m standing next to my best friend, my other half. I just don’t know if it’s possible to reclaim what’s been lost . . . or if it’s even worth the possible risk of failing all over again. I fall asleep with my nose kissing the glass screen, my arm thrown out to the left side of the bed, reaching for a man who isn’t there.

I’m thirty-four. That’s 238 years old in dog years. At least four-hundred in hockey years.

I’ve missed you. “You’re beautiful to me,” he growls, “so damn beautiful.” The pleasure coils tighter, and with a gasp, I come just like that. On my back, sprawled across the hood of a car. Exposed to the dark, to my ex-husband. Limbs shuddering and shaking. Jackson follows a heartbeat later, elbows on either side of my face, hips churning fast and uneven as he erupts with his own orgasm, and— “Shit, sweetheart,” he breathes roughly into my hairline, “holy shit.” My head falls back, lax. Lungs heaving, I manage to work out, “Good news.” “Yeah?” “You didn’t need me to put the condom on you this time. A-plus work, Captain.”

“There wasn’t a shot in hell that I was about to go to bed without talking about what happened tonight.” He pauses, full lips turning up. “You defiled my virgin car.” My jaw drops open unceremoniously. “Defiled your virgin—” Breaking off, I cough into my fist so as not to give him the satisfaction of combusting with laughter. But the coughing does nothing to hide my growing grin. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “No kidding here.”